


City of Stars

by Tasia (ruikosakuragi)



Series: Royai Prompts [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Comedy, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Family Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-03-02 09:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruikosakuragi/pseuds/Tasia
Summary: Modern AU. An aspiring actor and an independent songwriter become tangled up in each other's worlds despite their differences. The driving force of shared passions and pursuit of a dream collide against adversity. Does love conquer all? Is passion enough to fulfill dreams?





	1. a little chance encounter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A Passing Housewife (flourchildwrites)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourchildwrites/gifts).



> A/N: Thanks Damien Chazelle and Justin Hurwitz, because La La Land was thoroughly inspiring. Also Crazy, Stupid, Love and Begin Again. A tumblr prompt Summer Camp AU/Locked in a Room requested by A Passing Housewife (flourchildwrites) that was blown out of proportion.
> 
> Riza's song lyric is an original and was composed by a talented musician friend. Thank you :)

**Los Angeles, June 2014**

This was the second time someone told her that she needed to change her image.

She merely smiled in response.

In her peg trousers and slouchy jumper, an acoustic guitar on her lap, Riza Hawkeye could still strum an impactful riff. Then with a distending diaphragm, she would croon a rambunctious room into hushed reverence.

 _Oh dear little lady_  
_Remember the time that we first met_

Her voice wasn't powerful like Beyonce or Adele. Far from it. But it carried a sweet, sedative quality that matched the folk-alternative kind of music she preferred to play. The kind she hoped would unearth the intended sentiment and raw emotions preserved in each chord.

 _Seventeen year-old notions and the eyes to match_  
_Took me through the doors to a place that we called home_

There was her music, composed with every beat of her heart and each measure of her breath.

So would why would she need to change her image?

 _Placed besides your eraser_  
_The warm smell of apple mint I tasted_  
_In a time we never failed to say goodnight_

Against the modern concrete wall perched a grand piano. Beside it, an electronic drum kit and a built-in partition that held an impressive set of guitars - classical, steel strings, electric. Below them were framed cover albums of the artists they had signed.

These displays were flaunted to rouse excitement, Riza surmised. Or simply to make everything seem grander than the reality of its world.

In the loft-like confinement across, guarded by a clear, rectangular glass, were the sound-mix equipments. Inside, the engineers and producers - people who might become the authority over her music - sat with brows pleated and chins tucked against their chests.

 _It's funny how we think of yesterday_  
_Stuck in the moment_  
_Your movement and mine_

Though they shared the same space, Riza felt out of place, small and underdressed.

"Alright, good demo. But how about if you change the part here to say this instead-" one of the men in a black suit interrupted. "And I think this part here would sound better if we changed the beat. Add drums and percussions. Can we do that?"

As she had fearfully predicted, they wished to tweak a part of her arrangements. This, she would never agree to. This would be a firm refusal.

She shook her head. "No. I don't think so. It would change the song completely."

An older man in a blue executive suit appraised her appearance, from the crown of her head to the tip of her shoe, without a sense of boundary as though she was a display mannequin. "You know, you should wear a dress. Or something more appealing than a pair of baggy pants and sweater to show off your figure. And why not let your long hair flow down to your shoulder? Your light brown eyes would pop out more. You have a nice face; you should show it off. Why not?"

The sudden pain beneath her ribcage felt real, twisting. Constricting. Riza replied, blunt and sardonic, "So people would actually pay attention to my music rather than to my face."

Entering the contemporary Santa Monica recording studio, Riza should have known that she was setting herself up for another disappointment. She thought the smaller, independent label had been different. They  _had_  signed artists similar to herself.

Some of the men vacated their chairs and queued at the door. With a lukewarm disposition, the producer - the one man who stayed behind - preached about talent, opportunity, and making a dream come true. Then came the typical sermon about financial importance and target audience and… a single-song agreement.

It meant that they liked her song, but wanted no attachment to  _her_.

When Riza marched out of the glaringly bright studio, she was strongly tempted to say something more. Something clever. Craft a string of discourse that would thaw their rigid mindset for the next unfortunate soul who held her similar belief: that the true meaning of a song must remain intact.

But her perfect composure and polite demeanor triumphed. She lugged her guitar and walked in silent anger, her fist clenched by her side. Teased into a loose, messy bun, Riza weighed her rolled flaxen hair against her palm. The updo was more practical than chic, and now, she, too, felt a little self-conscious.

Frosted glass doors rimmed the long corridor of the newly erected building where the studio leased a sizable space. Riza could still smell the construction dust and the unpleasant stink of paint as she meandered the hallway that would lead her out to the streets. But right below the green-lit exit sign, she clipped her gait mid-step when she heard a muted phrase echo from one of the rooms:  _"Hey there! Stella, Baby!"_

It was a line she recognized, from one of her favorite plays.

Tiptoeing, she peeked through the transparent upper half of the door and saw short rows of folding seats. The downhill slope led to a high school auditorium-sized theater. In the center stood two men and a woman who were gallivanting about the stage.

Living in Los Angeles for the last ten years, Riza had learned that three o'clock was the start of rush hour, where every driver turned into a street racer, bustling through traffic with the recklessness of a drunk. She had some time to spare, she thought, and with a decisive mind she pressed her sticky skin on the door handle.

Her intention to be as stealthy as possible as she entered the classroom was a foible. A male student roosting on one of the red seats pierced her a peeved gaze. The slant of his brows wrinkled into disdain. He lifted an index finger and brought it to his lips, giving her an obligated hush.

Riza nodded her head in apology before sweeping a curious vision through the dimmed space. She regarded the large, advertising banner above the stage. It said, "California Actor Workshop Summer Camp". Flattening her spine against the back wall, she admitted herself in, her mind fascinated and her gaze expectant.

The actor under the spotlight, an attractive, dark-haired man who Riza concluded as the one in the role of Stanley Kowalski, approached the leading protagonist and delivered his line,  _"Haven't fallen in, have you?"_  The actor curled a provocative smile. Silent. Then he countered with a smirk,  _"I'm afraid I'll strike you as being the unrefined type. Stella's spoke of you a good deal. You were married once, weren't you?"_

" _Yes. When I was quite young."_

" _What happened?"_

Immersed in the play, Riza barely registered the coarse heat traveling through her calves. She grabbed the seat closest to the door and quietly sat on the edge, the seconds taking off and gliding through the air.

" _No, Stanley, I haven't heard of the Napoleonic code, if I have, I don't see what it-"_

" _Let me enlighten you on a point or two, baby. In the state of Louisiana we have the Napoleonic code according to which, what belongs to the wife belongs to the husband and vice versa. For instance if I had a piece of property, or you had a piece of property-"_

The actor playing him was brilliant. In her eyes, he  _was_  Stanley Kowalski. Just as Marlon Brando was Stanley Kowalski. With a rich and deep timbre he commanded the room, delivering each line like he had lived his life. And his expression. The wayward look that oscillated between inviting and precarious, and the subtlety of his folly that hinted at the menace to come. Riza could hardly lift her gaze off of him. She felt as though he had dominated her full attention and still demanded more.

Scene Two was over before she realized, and an older gentleman - the director of the play - who lingered by the front row called for a fifteen-minute break.

The students filed into a boisterous line and gathered into a swarm of ants, extracting idle chats to fill the passing time. "Stanley Kowalski" jumped off the edge of the polygonal platform and strutted past the riot of squeaking seats and babbling conversations.

He motioned towards the exit. Towards her.

Compelled to spill a series of compliments for him, Riza sprang up from her seat and began to speak, "I just want to say that your performance was wonderful, and I thi-"

Rather than heeding her earnest praise, the actor, who had fierce, dusky eyes to complement the rest of his handsome features, ignored her with a curt brush against her shoulder and shoved the door with a force, swinging it relentlessly. He did not give her the courtesy of a glance, let alone a cordial nod in her direction.

Scoffing in disbelief, Riza muttered her annoyance in a shallow breath, "Arrogant jerk."

She could still smell the faint whiff of his sandalwood. It was an alluring scent, and it irked her all the more, drifting through her senses like a feverish breeze. She slung the strap of her guitar case over her shoulder. Garishly, she quit the classroom with a careless elbow at the door and sank her loud steps into the dense carpet as if it could soak her exasperating afternoon.

* * *

 

The Chateau Marmont was everything he thought it would be.

Haughty. Elitist. Snobbish.

Beautiful.

Hollywood's golden age glamour, left by those who had walked its steps.

An attractive redhead winked at him from across the bar. Her fetching skirt was hiked up high, revealing a pair of long, smooth legs. But Roy Mustang was not in an entertaining mood, and he pretended as if he hadn't caught her signal.

He briefly glimpsed the glittering terrace, where elegantly dressed patrons could be found mingling under the faint stars of Tuesday night. If only his spirit had matched the glowing city, warm and amiable.

The hotel sat on a magnificent hill overlooking the City of Angels. Built on the brink of the Great Depression, it had survived the tumultuous era because of its associations with the rich and the powerful - people who wanted to treat it as an escape from the doldrums of recession. Now, almost ninety years later, its sophisticated past had effectively weaved itself into the chateau's history. And no one had forgotten.

For an aspiring actor such as himself, he had heard of celebrities and talent agents flocking to the Chateau Marmont. Roy must be desperate enough to follow the advice of his best friends, Maes Hughes and Jean Havoc, who had turned tonight's chance for discovery into a reckless bet: who would be able to pick up the most women in one hour?

Sulking, Roy dismissed their antics and ushered himself to the half-packed bar in the hopes of a reflective evening. This morning's disappointing audition had coated a bitter a taste on his tongue. One more crossed out from his calendar, and another week with nothing to look forward to. Hailing the bartender, Roy lowered his hand upon the man's approach and whispered an order of Old Fashioned.

"That would be twenty-five dollars, sir," the bartender said, his hands busy with a wine glass and a dish rag.

Roy looked up at the man. His brown hair was stylishly tousled to one side, his chin angled upward to give an aura of dignity. Then Roy stole a glance at a middle-aged man who perched two seats away, sailing a scrutinizing sight to the quarter-filled drink in his hand. " _That_  tiny thing is twenty-five dollars? Where are we, in the Bahamas?"

The bartender nodded. "Yes."

Whistling floutingly, Roy reached into the depth of his pocket and pilfered his wallet. He snatched his credit card and dropped it on the counter. The bartender plucked it and left immediately. Then Roy reminded himself to never listen to Maes and Jean again.

The same redhead from earlier shot him an approving look as she strutted past. Her heels clicked beside him. "Hey. What's your name?"

Dismissively, Roy turned his head and confronted the wooden cabinetry that held the bar's wine collection. "Sorry, I'm here with my girlfriend. She's outside somewhere." If he hadn't been in such a foul frame of mind, he might have played Jean's silly little game. Perhaps he would have emerged the victor.

With jet black hair and a set of dark eyes against pale complexion, Roy wielded an enigmatic smile that could easily turn heads. Paired with a well-shaped nose and an athletic frame, one might think any talent agents would overlook his very average height of five-nine to readily cast him in a leading role of a romantic comedy or a coming-of-age drama.

But Hollywood had proven now and again that luck and connection trumped all others. There were, after all, many good-looking people roaming around the city with a web of network that was broader and more intricate than Roy's own delicate one.

When the drink arrived, Roy swirled the glass twice and downed everything in one large gulp. He scoffed. It was twenty-five dollars that could have gone to gas, or rent money. Now all he could do was wait for his friends to settle their bet once and for all. Then he could leave the hotel, make a call to his agent, and chase after another promising opportunity.

" _Look, just give me another drink, alright? Then I won't have to talk to your manager-"_

" _But sir, you're dr-"_

The middle-aged man he had observed earlier wobbled an index finger at the bartender, beckoning him to come. He whispered a slur of words that Roy could barely make out, pointing to the woman next to him. The man was clearly drunk. Or on the verge of it. Surreptitiously, Roy stole another glance. Only now he noticed that the man was wearing a casual button down, plain and creased, starkly juxtaposed against the upscale, glitzy backdrop.

"God! You're making me look bad in front of this beautiful lady! So bad!" the man grumbled to himself, his expression evidently irritable.

Within a couple of minutes, the bartender returned with another serving. He slipped the mixture in front of the man, who quickly brought the rim of the glass to his lips and took a sip of the amber liquor. Then he swiveled to the woman beside him and said, "I'm not- This doesn't usually happen. You want another drink of that grey looking thing with olive? What is that? Or do you- Do you want to try this drink? It's quite tasty."

Grabbing her purse, the woman swiftly vacated her stool and said, "I'm leaving."

In a rather loud voice, the man tilted his face up from his drink. "Fine, leave! You women are only made to break our hearts anyway!"

All would have been tolerable if the man hadn't seemed so miserable. So  _pitiable_. Roy rose from his seat and strolled to his side, resting his back against the counter. "So, what's your story?"

"Why do you care?" the man said, his gaze fully concentrated on the half-drunk cocktail. His long, blond fringe was plastered on his perspiring forehead, falling over a pair of heavy eyes. He slurred every word to match his gaunt countenance, and Roy immediately thought the man could use at least ten years of sleep. The man lifted the glass and took another sip.

Hurriedly, Roy took the glass from the man's hand. The cloying stench of alcohol hung unpleasantly when the man breathed, like a poison fume. "I think you've had enough of that."

The man protested by raising his voice, shouting over the soft ambient music, "Hey! Don't you know who  _I am_?"

"No, I don't know who you are," Roy began, crossing one foot over the other. His arms followed suit, tangled below his chest. "But I know you're drunk and you just pissed off your lady."

"Oh, give me a break," the man said. "Don't you have something better to do? I saw how those- those flighty women look at you. And the redhead one even approached you with googly eyes. Shouldn't you be taking her home rather than talk to me?"

But Roy lingered. "What's your name?" He shot the man a look of dogged determination, angling his torso towards him so the man could perceive his uncompromising stance.

Dispiritedly, he sighed, "My name is Berthold."

Extending his hand, Roy said, "Nice to meet you, Berthold. I'm Roy."

Berthold combed through Roy's expression with a suspicion befitting a man whose money had just been cheated out of him. But he eventually captured Roy's proffered hand and shook it with a weak grip. Berthold's palm was drenched with sweat. Roy wasn't sure if it was from the less than desirable temperature in the room or if the woman had left him anxious.

Roy hoisted himself up on the bar seat next to him and twirled to face the man. "Do you want to tell me what's been bothering you? Clearly you're trying to drink your sorrow away."

"I'm not usually this chatty to strangers. Or to anyone, really. But what the hell, tonight can't possibly get any worse," Berthold snorted. "Let's start with my daughter. I haven't seen nor talked to her for  _months_. I'm- Well, I'm pretty sure she's been ignoring my calls. And when I came home from work today, my wife had a duffle bag full of clothes, all packed and ready to go. I asked her  _where_  she was going and she said she's been cheating on me with her boss. Her ugly. Ass. Boss. She's probably at his apartment now."

"Oh," Roy said, his brows rising, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, me too," Berthold said. He angled his nose towards the ceiling, looking thoroughly dejected. "She said I'm married to my work. She said I don't pay enough attention to her. She said she hadn't gotten laid in… oh, I don't know, a year? She also said I'm a terrible father and a shit of a husband who cared about nothing else but his work. Work, work, work."

"And is it true?"

Berthold scoffed, "I guess she's not wrong."

"What do you do?" Roy asked. His hand reached for Berthold's drink, dragging it towards himself. Perhaps a drink was necessary for such a weighty conversation. "Are you a secret agent? Are you a politician? What's so important at work that prevented you from doing all of those things your wife asked you?"

"I work at a law firm," he said, "and that demanded a lot of attention. Have you ever heard of Trisha Elric? The actress from that period drama series?"

"Of course."

"Well we settled her messy divorce case in one month.  _One month_ ," Berthold emphasized, as if Roy could understand what the length of time meant. "And I'm sure you've heard of Olivier Armstrong. Our firm was her defendant when she was accused of slander. We were awake for thirty-six hours working that case. Thirty-six! We won, of course."

The sweet beverage in his mouth went down it in one loud gulp. His mind was fleetingly dizzy beyond sentience, barren of judgment. It was the effect of the whiskey finally hitting him, Roy thought. Or perhaps it was Berthold's connection to the entertainment industry that jogged his heart rate. If Roy had been remorseful about being here tonight, then he was remorseful no longer.

"So you're a hot shot lawyer, that's great. And while it's too bad that your wife cheated on you, I'm inclined to agree. You  _are_  married to your job."

"Well thanks for pointing the obvious. I feel much  _shittier_  now," Berthold crowed. He rested a feeble grip on the backrest of his stool and dropped to the ground, his legs wobbling as they found purchase on the polished wood floor. "I'm going to leave, go home to my empty house, and sleep my-"

But Roy couldn't have this man leave now. Not when he was _so_  close. Quickly, Roy placed a firm grasp on his arm, pacifying Berthold with a thread of irresistible words, "You want to know how to get her back? I can help you." It hadn't been Roy's intention to incite displeasure from the man. But it also hadn't been his intention to say what he had just said.

Stopping in his track, Berthold said, "Help me how?"

There was no backing out now.

Roy took out a tin of breath mints and slipped it inside Berthold's breast pocket. "Carry this with you at all times. And you might want to get a haircut so you look less like a homeless." Then with a smug smile, Roy affirmed, "You said earlier I was good with women. Well, _I am_  good with women, and I know precisely what they want, including your wife." It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth either.

Berthold rested a hand over the tin, guarding it as though it were his lifeline. "Tell me."

"Question number one. What is your role in this scene?  _Who_  are you?"

Confused, Berthold quirked his mouth unpleasantly, "What role? Is this supposed to be an audition or something?"

"Are you the smooth talker who whispers sweet nothings in their ears? Are you a good listener who would let the woman do all the talking?"

With a contemplative rub of his chin, Berthold said, "I suppose... either one of those will work."

Roy shook his head, tutting his finger, "Wrong. You play up to  _your_  strength." Sizing Berthold up, Roy started to speak, "You are a uh… you know…" but he struggled to get the proper words out at the man's disheveled hair and unappealing habit. He spouted the first thing that came to his mind, "You are an employed and responsible adult. You are stable, dedicated, and you know what you want in life. Now _that_  is your role."

If his Aunt Chris had heard every offending word, she would have slapped some senses into him. The older woman didn't raise him to disrespect women. But desperate times called for desperate measures. If Berthold could introduce him to Trisha Elric or Olivier Armstrong, or even their agency manager-

Berthold interrupted his musings, "Do you think there are women here who would actually talk to a… an employed and responsible adult?"

"Of course. There's always going to be a woman for every kind of man. You just need to sharpen the saw." Roy pointed to himself, "Take me for example. I'm mysterious and good looking. Women tend to do most of the talking when they're around me, and I play up to that."

"Okay, so what do I do now? Who is my target tonight then?" Berthold asked. Roy could detect an impatience about him, by the way his fingers fidgeted against the countertop and how his feet wouldn't stop drumming against the rail.

But Roy countered, "No. Tonight you go home and get some rest. No women would want to talk to a half inebriated man. You can't make them feel special if you can't even make  _yourself_  feel special." In the corner of his eyes, Roy could see his friend Maes crossing the floor, approaching him, slow from intoxication as evident from the streak of red all over his face. Tapping Berthold's shoulder lightly, Roy swiped his cellphone when he oriented his direction.

"How do I reach-?" Berthold stammered.

Tucking the phone back into his pocket, Roy said, "I'm way ahead of you, pal. I saved my number on there and we'll continue this when you're a little bit more sober." He gave Berthold a genial squeeze on the shoulder. "Until next time, Berthold."

Briskly, Roy met Maes halfway, taking him by the elbow and directing his inebriated footfalls towards the terrace. Outside. Anywhere but here. He wanted to leave as little trail as possible as to what had transpired within the four corners of the bar. Only now did Roy realize that his racing heart was the byproduct of his audacious scheming rather than the overpriced alcohol, which did absolutely nothing to dampen his nervousness.

"How was the bar?" Maes asked.

"Fine. Just fine."

The terrace stretched wider and deeper than Roy had originally thought. Miniature palm trees and rose bushes walked the path towards an intimate section, where a group of fashionable patrons lingered for frivolity. Above, a neat row of soft yellow string lights danced with the one-two bowl-shaped chandelier across the elongated, coastal style cabanas.

When Roy saw a bed of disheveled blond hair and a broad back that quivered delightfully as the man laughed, he suspected that Jean had successfully procured a dalliance for tonight. Beside him, a wavy brunette leaned suggestively with a glass of martini. She was laughing, gobbling up ever word Jean spit out of his mouth.

Maes occupied the spot beside her and asked, "Where's Gracia?"

The brunette whirled her head left and right, as if searching, and paused midway. The hand that held the drink stuck out a pinkie finger. "There! There she is."

The woman named Gracia squeezed through the crowd of people with two glasses of cocktails in her hands. Her short, sandy strands framed a dainty appearance, her movements supple and refined. Just the kind that would seize and hold his world, eclipsing Maes's sun and moon.

Gracia raised her drink, signaling to Maes that she had seen him. Then she caught a glimpse of Roy and her eyes widened. Her tall boots cutting through the brick pavement, Gracia spun to a blonde woman behind her, whispering a curious statement that ended in the two women chuckling.

"Hi Maes," Gracia greeted with a sheepish smile, rolling a meaningful gaze towards him. Maes rubbed the back of his head, returning her gesture with equal timidity. He took the glass from her hand, and Roy felt strangely intrusive, as if he were disturbing a private moment.

But the feeling quickly dissipated as Roy swayed his eyes to the young woman beside her. Furtively, he hauled a heavy gaze from the hem of her knee-length, amethyst dress to the wine of her lips and then to the fray of her golden fringe. Gracia's friend captured his glazing vision and wouldn't let it go, and Roy sensed an awkward urgency to cast his stare elsewhere. At the chandelier, at the palm trees, or even the ground. At anything and anyone else but her. But the longer he dawdled, the more familiar she became.

_Had he met her somewhere?_

As though he could read Roy's mind, Maes said, "Well, I hope you're done sulking for the night, Roy, because I want to introduce you to these wonderful ladies." One by one, Maes spelled out their names, loud and clear, pointing to each one with a palm up. The short haired woman was Gracia, and the brunette Rebecca, her carved waist clasped beneath Jean's possessive grip. Gracia smiled and waved a free hand, and Rebecca nodded in turn.

Lastly, Maes harrumphed and flitted a sly wink at Roy, as if he had known Roy's particular type and scored every checkbox on that list, "Roy, this is Riza. Riza, this is Roy."

Roy attended to a careful appreciation of her, contouring her pretty face on a slender sketch. There was modesty in the way she carried herself, in her reserved stance and placid expression, and he could have sworn he had seen her before.

Yet, his brain was intent on dismissing the notion just as furiously as the rapid pulse on his neck, the drum pounding faster and louder to the nocturnal rhythm of summer nights.

Stealthily, Roy slid a moist palm against the back of his trouser. He extended his hand to shake hers. "Nice to meet you, Riza."

Riza smiled a little too endearingly, and in the span of a heartbeat Roy felt his breath abruptly vacating his lungs. Colors ran from his face.

He  _had_  seen her before.

All doubts turned into dust when she took his hand and sneered, derision on her tongue, "Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Stanley Kowalski."


	2. through the smokescreen of the crowded restaurants

The mirth in Rebecca's eyes evaporated, her parting lips securing a surprised look about her. When Roy drifted a nervous gaze around the group, who were bouncing off amused glances with each other, he felt the sudden need to explain himself.

Rebecca beat him to it.

"So you two know each other?" the brunette asked, darting an incriminating finger between him and Riza.

Riza said, "No, but I had the pleasure of sitting in his performance this afternoon." Then she smiled, teetering on mischief, with a deep pucker in the corner of her mouth. Roy felt the lump in his throat plunging into his stomach.

"Ooooh!" The dawn of enthusiasm caught on Rebecca, further stirring the rock in his stomach. "You're an actor!" she exclaimed.

Tentatively, Roy formed an answer, rounding his mouth to bridge the assumption. He wasn't an actor. Yet. But before the words could come out, Jean answered on his behalf, with immense pride that boasted beyond Roy's own, "Yup, my friend here is an actor. He's very good, too!"

"Have I seen you in anything?" Rebecca beamed.

Reluctant, Roy answered, "I wish I could say yes… but no. Probably not." Being extras didn't count.

"But he's a part of this actor summer camp program, and he was  _oh-so_  wonderful," Riza chimed in, "so wonderful that he stayed in character even after the performance ended." Her expression seemed genuine to everyone in the circle, but Roy could feel his body recoiling at the sharp ridicule in her tone.

"He stayed in character as Stanley Kowalski?" Maes jumped in. "Isn't the guy an asshole?"

"Stanley is, yes." Riza nodded again, and her eyes were harsh on him, piercing with disdain. "Such an  _asshole_."

"Okay, hold up," Roy said, lifting a finger. "I can ex-"

But Riza cut in harshly, "It's getting late. I need to start walking back to my car." She promptly muttered her thanks to Rebecca, who staggered to take the drink from her hand. Without another word, she turned and started for the exit, through the bar and down a flight of stairs until half of her body disappeared from view.

"I'm leaving, too," Roy declared hastily.

Jean released his clutch from Rebecca's waist. "Wait! You took me here. How am I going to get home-"

"Uber," Roy said. Taking Jean home was the last thing on his mind. "Or have Maes take you."

"Or you can ask Rebecca if you could stay at her place," Maes suggested playfully. As much as Roy wanted to linger for Jean's decision, Riza took precedence. Roy cantered away, cleaving through the crowd imprudently, chasing after her with vigorous steps.

Roy considered himself to be quick-witted. As a troublesome child, charm and flattery had bought him out of many undesirable circumstances. It had  _always_  worked. But as he hunted for a certain woman in a purple dress, he debated his strategy. Riza blossomed before him, pausing in her track, as if the wall of patrons had prevented her from leaving. As he approached, he felt as though he was in a Shakespeare play, facing against the feisty Beatrice who would instantly disregard his sweet words and cajolery.

The people cleared out, and Riza started moving again.

"Riza! Riza, wait!" Roy called out. When she whirled around, Roy sensed the hairs on his arms prickling up.

"Ah. It's you," she said impassively, and he sensed the desire to bolt.

The neatly trimmed hedge beside him seemed like a good place to cower behind. "Look, I just want to explain what happened this afternoon," Roy offered, crystallizing his confidence with a voice deeper than usual.

Tangling her arms under her breasts, Riza sniffed, disinterested, "No, no. It seemed pretty clear to me. You had to be somewhere, and you just walked out the door as if everybody else around you was invisible."

"No, that's not true," Roy amended. "I admit I was being a little rude, but-"

She raised a single brow. " _Rude_? Really?"

He stared at her, his mind stumbling over words, until he decided that it was better to admit defeat. "Okay, I was an asshole this afternoon. There, I said it."

"And?"

"And," he began, though not without chagrin, "I apologize for brushing past you as if you were invisible."

She rolled her eyes, seemingly unappeased.

And Roy found himself blabbering, "Please trust me that it wasn't my intention to do so. I'm sorry that I brushed you off like that, but I was distracted by something that happened in the morning. If it helped, I would've done the same to anyone else. It wasn't personal or anything-"

But she suddenly burst into laughter, unrestrained.

He gaped at her, incredulous, and scoffed, "Oh, I see how it is. You wanted to get back at me by making me all flustered. Well you got what you asked for. Are you happy?"

"Yes," she beamed victoriously, and as irritable as he was, Roy felt the weight of his heart lightening at her assent. Reaching into her small purse, Riza asked, "And can I ask what you're still doing here while the rest of your friends are over there-" she pointed with her finger, the valet coupon in her hand, "flirting with mine? Shouldn't you get back to them?"

Shaking his head, Roy answered, plain and sincere, "No, I'm leaving for the night. I've had enough of this place."

Without another word, Riza shot him a small smile, as though knowing exactly what he was feeling. She swiftly cut through the clay-like brick that paved the path to the garage. Roy trailed closely behind her, his palm open and hovering over the small of her back, guiding the way without touching.

When the valet parking board jutted out behind a throng of patrons, Riza halted in place, abrupt. His palm met the spine of her dress, and Roy captured a whiff of her rose-scented perfume. Before he could speak, Riza twirled to face him and stammered, "Uh actually, do you want to go to the bar real quick? I think I could do with one more drink before we go."

Confused, he studied the amber glaze of her eyes. He saw apprehension, or maybe panic, as though she had seen someone she should not have seen. But at the mention of the Marmont Bar, a memory of an earlier evening hit him like a brick.  _What if he's still there?_  "Bar? No, we... shouldn't go to the bar."

"Come on. It'll be fun. I'll even buy you a drink," Riza wheedled, her hands finding solace along the sleeves of his shirt. He gulped visibly, and she quickly removed her clasps, as if realizing the inappropriateness of it all.

Rejecting her offer would have been the smart thing to do. But when she looked up at him, her gaze pleading and helpless, he could sense his control slipping away. "Fine."

All Roy could see as she led the way up the cobbled stairs and into the dim barroom was how tightly she clutched her purse in her hands. Asking a man for a drink didn't seem like something she had done very often. She communicated her discomfort by avoiding his vision, plastering hers to the side as though the bushy hedgerow was a fascinating view.

Roy was mute when he slid into the one of the wooden stools next to her. Berthold was no longer there, and he sighed in relief. But the same attractive redhead, whose stare had glossed over the span of his appearance only hours before, swiveled in her seat beside him. Now, she stared at Riza, examining and measuring.

" _This_  is your girlfriend?" she asked, sounding mercilessly scornful.

In his head, the answer was crystal clear, but what came out of his mouth was reckless, spontaneous, "Yes, she is. Do you have a problem with that?"

Seemingly surprised, the woman merely said, "Oh." Flicking her voluminous long hair with the theatrics, she slunk down from her stool and marched away in silence, her tiny clutch clamped beneath her ruby painted nails.

"What was  _that_  about?" Riza asked, the bridge of her nose curling in displeasure. "She looked like she was about to murder me."

He shrugged. "I have no idea."

"So we've only met, and you're already calling me your girlfriend. What else do I need to know?" she remarked, amused.

With nonchalance, he said, "We recently moved in together. We both have nine-to-five jobs. Our weekdays are boring, and we can't wait for Friday to come around. When Fridays do come around, we make dinner together, then we watch our favorite show with your head on my lap."

"Oh my, our relationship flashing before my eyes. Is this what you actors do on a daily basis? Fabricate someone's reality?" Riza asked, chuckling, and Roy found her sense of humor endearingly captivating.

Roy leaned his body forward, closing their distance. He smirked, "You can do it, too. Why don't you try?"

She flashed her teeth with an air of confidence about her. "Let's see. We have a rescue dog who sleeps at the bottom of our bed every night. On Saturdays we would take morning walks, just early enough to see the sunrise. And every Sunday we would have brunch at the diner on Wilshire. It's our weekend ritual." Tucking a loose strand behind her ear, she smiled sheepishly, "I felt a little silly doing that."

"But it was very good."

"Thanks," she grinned. "Too bad it's all make-believe."

A shallow, attractive dimple creeped up on one side of her cheeks, and Roy chuckled. "Make-believe? What? You don't wanna date a guy like me?" When the bartender approached, he asked her, "What would you like to drink?"

To the bartender, she ordered, "Extra dry martini, please." Roy replied the same, and after the man left he faced Riza once again, who was reworking her disheveled, shoulder-length hair into a bun. The downy cascade of gold suited her, and he was briefly tempted to rest a hand and cease her gesture. Riza said, "The past fifteen minutes has been one of the most interesting moments of my life. But you and I will never work out."

The solemnity in her tone upended his delight. "Why is that?"

She bit her bottom lip, as if afraid of how he would react. "This is going to sound stupid… but my track record shows that I've only ever been attracted to musicians. You're not a musician."

He wanted to challenge her confidence, create a perforation in the idea. But perhaps it was his dignity that ultimately pushed him to say otherwise. "Okay, I get that. Besides, do you see here?" he wagged his index finger in the small space between them.

"See what?" she asked.

"Absolutely nothing," he asserted, shaking his head. "There's no spark. I don't see it, you don't see it. I mean you're cute, but you're not my type."

Her face scrunched up, seemingly hurt by his statement. "Oh really?"

"I prefer brunettes over blondes. You're also taller than most women I've dated. You're what? Five-seven?" The lies spilled out of his mouth more effortlessly than he thought. "But what's with the affinity for musicians?"

Riza confronted the floor before looking back up at him, as if hesitant. "I'm a musician myself."

At this, he raised his brows. "You are?"

"Yeah. I write songs and I sing… during my free time… that's a musician."

"And what do you do during your not-free time?"

Her shoulders sank limply. "I make coffee at the corner shop on Hollywood and Highland."

"So you're also a barista. You claim you've only ever been attracted to musicians, presumably because you're one yourself. Do you date baristas, too, then? The better they are at making coffee, the more attractive they look to you?" he quipped, chortling. Then he donned an appalling voice, a high-pitched shrill that was supposed to mimic hers, "Oh honey, I just want a dash of milk with that three shots of espresso please. Don't forget to add a quarter spoonful of sugar. I like it just a bit sweet, like you."

"Alright. Alright, I get it. You made your point," Riza laughed, warmly, and he sensed a capricious flutter in his heart. "Anyways, enough about that. Why were you in such a bad mood today?"

He waved her off with a hand. "Nah, it's nothing worth knowing."

"I was on the receiving end of it. I think I deserve to know, don't you think? And maybe you'll feel better after talking about it."

Impulsively, he raked his fingers through his hair. "I was at an audition this morning. I barely got two lines out before they stopped me. It's frustrating." She kept her silence and looked at him with sympathy, and he added, "I honestly wish I could love something else. And it's not like I haven't tried my hands at them either, but nothing ever came close to acting."

"When's the next audition?"

"Well, that's precisely it. I don't have one. Maes and Jean decided that I should stop relying on my  _third_  agent and venture out on my own. Go out to parties and places like this and meet the right people. I'm not usually one for these kind of things, but the Chateau is beautiful and it reminds me of old Hollywood. It makes me feel like I'm on a set."

"I know what you mean. I would walk to the record store three blocks out just to wind down from work. I love the atmosphere there," she announced wistfully. "And did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Meet the right people?"

"I don't know, but-" he lifted his gaze to meet hers and smiled, disarmingly, "I met you."

She returned his smile with a rosy flush to her cheeks. "I don't know if I can help you with  _that_. But if it makes you feel better, I think you're a wonderful actor and you shouldn't give up just yet."

"Right. I've come too far now to forfeit everything," he said. "And now that I've shared my story, why don't you tell me more about this music business?"

"Well, I write my own music and lyrics, and I play the guitar," she supplied.

"Go on," he encouraged.

At first, she seemed reluctant. But when Roy remained quiet, Riza took the hint and prattled on with a zeal and passion that seemed to stretch beyond his own. "The genres vary, but I enjoy pop-folk, rock, and alternative the most. Simon & Garfunkel is very inspiring. Damien Rice, Sufjan Stevens, Bon Iver."

"Okay yeah, I've heard of some of them," Roy pitched in, "though I'm not too familiar with their songs. The popular radio stations don't exactly play that kind of music."

"It's unfortunate, really. I'd like to think that their music isn't tainted by commercialization - you know, purely for financial gains - and that they stayed true to their calling. You should try this once. Sit in a quiet room, close your door and blinds, and just listen in the dark. You can really hear their soul in the song."

He nodded attentively, and for a time, he imagined himself following in her direction, searching for the essence of  _their_  songs and letting himself drown in it. But her energetic gaze unexpectedly flickered with a distraction. Then he heard the buzzing sound from her purse.

Scrambling for her phone, Riza gave him the one finger motion and answered the phone. "Hey... Claudio? Yeah... Can you hear me…?" She rotated the stool and faced the other way.

As Roy turned towards the bar, only now he realized that their cocktails had been sitting idle, old and untouched. The olives came apart from the short toothpick and floated across the muddy water, the stuffed bleu cheese running and spreading to whiten the hue. He brought the rim close to his lips and sipped, though he immediately set it on the countertop when he saw her motioning back towards him.

"Yeah. I'm leaving now. See you soon..."

When she hung up, silence fell between them. He could see the uncertainty on her face when she fully circled back to him, her mouth fishing for a word or an explanation. The situation gave way to uneasiness, and Roy shifted in his seat and cut in, "You gotta be somewhere, right?"

"Right… I almost forgot I was supposed to meet up with Claudio-" she looked at her wristwatch, "in ten minutes..."

"Alright then," he muttered, sounding more disappointed than he thought he'd be. Riza floundered for something in her purse. When she placed a credit card on the countertop, Roy quickly placated her hand. "Don't worry. I got it. You go on ahead and meet up with uh... Claudio..."

Her skin was soft and warm underneath his own, and Roy found himself lost in the instance. Speechless, she lingered with him and stared into his eyes, unmoving. But when the same meddlesome device buzzed once again, she broke the moment and stammered, "Ah- um, thank you. For the drink." And he could merely watch as she gathered her purse and slipped off from the high spot beside him.

"You're welcome," he murmured, nodding in acknowledgment.

But when she stood amiably and wandered her gaze to meet his, hope filled him up to the brim, all at once. She waved a hand and smiled, reassuringly, like a silent invitation that spoke of a promising future, "Goodnight, Roy."

* * *

 

The glaring neon sign of the diner on Magnolia Boulevard danced on the pavement, and Riza picked up her pace and jogged through the din of the busy street. She was already five minutes late by the time she found parking, and the added heel blisters nipped at her skin, slowing down her gait. It felt as though the world was conspiring against her. Now, as she stumbled in, her breath stolen by the summer heat, she quietly cursed the sweltering climate of the restaurant.

Riza found Claudio with ease. At nine-forty at night, the number of customers was very forgiving. There were only another couple beside them. Taking the booth seat across from him in the back of the restaurant, Riza breathed, "It's so warm in here."

"Yeah, the AC's dead," Claudio replied, barely tilting his chin. His light brown fringe poured over glassy blue eyes as clear and crisp as the music he produced, his gaze meandering across the chord chart. With one finger, he rustled a lead sheet from one corner of the table to land in front of her. "Can you read the lyrics on there and let me know if it's any good?"

Wordless, Riza arranged her spine and wore what was left of her energy. She lifted the paper until it was angled to a reading view. Her eyes skimmed, fast yet thorough, and as she flitted over the bridge, she paused at the next stanza:

_Intimate ballads at the bar, and_

_The smoke and mirrors of sweet love_

She inhaled through her mouth, expelling the air to billow her wispy bangs, baring her thoughts. The words whispered the veracity of  _their_  encounter. Or so she believed. Timidly, she admitted to seeing that spark Roy claimed to have been missing. She was fairly sure he had seen it, too. He was nice -  _nicer than she originally thought_ , and it didn't help that he was handsome. With the white dress shirt underneath a fitted black blazer, it was almost a challenge not to stare.

Riza had wielded the most convincing convivial demeanor with which to deceive the rapid beat of her heart and the rise of temperature. But all of it felt false.

"I almost forgot," Claudio said, shattering her concentration. He rose from his seat and lunged his body forward to place a quick peck on her cheek. He smiled, warm and pleasing. "Hi Riza."

Blinking her focus, she uttered mindlessly, "Hello."

"So? How is it?"

Gently, she pushed the paper towards him. "It's good."

"That's it? Just good?" he teased.

The corners of her lips curled up. "It's wonderful."

"Okay, so I called you out tonight because,  _drum roll_ -" Rapping brisk fingers against the edge of the table, Claudio then stuck a hand into the canvas pack to his left and slipped his cellphone towards her. It was equipped with a set of wired earbuds. "We finished mastering my debut. I got a copy of the final product right here. I told them I wanted to let you listen before release since you helped with the arrangements."

"Congratulations," Riza smiled. She rolled on the earbuds and nodded at Claudio, signaling for him to begin. Excitement was vivid on his expression as his thumb delighted over the button that would propel his entire career. She  _was_  excited for him, and perhaps a little bit jealous, too.

The intro sank her into a familiar tune, and she closed her eyes. It was melancholy. It was hopeful. A song about the loss of innocence. The playful warble of his guitar and the trill of his hum sent shivers up her back, reeling in a pleasant chill and fettering her to the reflecting sleet of its melody. She found herself rocking to the rhythm, bobbing her head left and right.

But as chorus hit all became lost. The intimacy of the composition was no longer recognizable, a divorce from the soft strip of its acoustic riff. Instead, it was blaring with an electronic sound that drowned the heart of the song, a mix of synthesizers that was woefully out of place. As it was, everything felt disembodied, disjointed, and a look of disgust crawled on her face.

It wasn't her intention to look that way, but it described exactly how she felt. "Uh, is that autotune I hear? And what  _happened_  to your guitar solo? All I hear is bass synth! You do know your singing voice is  _completely fine_  without autotune, right? What-  _why_  would you-? Are you trying to be Daft Punk?"

"What's wrong with Daft Punk? You told me you like them," Claudio argued.

"Nothing is wrong with them, but your music is  _not_  like that."

"How do you know what my music is or isn't like?"

Pulling in a calming breath, Riza replied, willing the irritation to leave her tone, "Because I've listened to your music and helped you with some of the arrangements, so I  _know_  it's not like that."

Like a child under his mother's scolding eyes, he grumbled, "The producers said the new arrangement would appeal to a wider audience and it would sell better this way. I agreed."

She scoffed, "So you're a sell out?"

"Call it what you may, but if it sells, that's better for me," he crowed. Extending his palm out, Riza tossed the earbuds, her hands moist from irrepressible heat. "Not everyone's like you Riza. Not all of us can afford to write the kind of music they like and expect to live a content and comfortable life."

"You think I don't have to worry about paying rent? Why do you think I work at the coffee shop? For fun?" she snarled.

He countered, "Well you have your dad, haven't you? If you run out of funds you can just go crawling back to him."

Offended, she raised a single, incredulous brow. "Is that how you see me, Claudio?"

Claudio fingered his temple, pushing and kneading, as though he had had the worst headache. When he wandered his gaze to her, she could see remorse or guilt clouding his vision. He breathed, "That's  _not_  how I see you, and I'm sorry about what I said. Remember when I asked you to introduce me when we met, and you refused? That was almost  _half a year_  ago. It's been long enough and you two should make up. It's for your own good."

Her limbs remained as tough as steel, both arms like a shield across her chest. Inconsolable, every word and every mention of her father only burned hotter in her lungs. The shadows of displeasure flared in the dark half moons below her eyes, and she was certain Claudio perceived it.

The outline of his shoulders drooped. A look of surrender. He sighed, "Look, all I'm saying is that you should utilize your father's connection, Riza. It  _will_  take you places."

Shaking her head, she curved a spiritless smile. "I can't believe it… You of all people. I'm done."

With a harsh swipe of her purse, Riza slid and stalked out of the diner. The hooks of her heels dictated the course of her destination. She was going home. Unwind. Have a bath. In the tepid solace of her tub, she would wash herself of these pesky conundrums, breathing in and breathing out, dreaming of her better night.


	3. a technicolor world made out of music and machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wanted to make the progression of their relationship a little bit more seamless, so I hope you don't mind that I changed the total chapters from 8 to 10. Thank you muguetmuse for letting me pick your brain for this fic.

**July 2014**

It must have been at least one hundred degrees. The outdoor mall patrons were in shorts and tank tops, knee-length skirts and thin blouses. They dressed appropriately under the punishing sun. But here was Roy, wearing a nice, black pair of trousers and a stylish jacket over a form-fitting shirt. All in the name of looking absolutely ravishing.

He plucked his v-neck hem and fanned the inside of his shirt. Berthold was late, and Roy reminded himself to be sure to point it out. This, perhaps, was one of the reasons he had such terrible luck with women, including his wife. No lady would enjoy sitting alone in the middle of a jam-packed shopping center, waiting for their man, with only the comfort of their cellphone to keep them from looking less lonely and awkward.

Shuffling through his phone, Roy attempted to read through his agent's lengthy text message. Yet, the words just seemed like black swirls floating beyond the stark white of its background. They made very little sense. Unbidden, the image of Riza assailed him. A pretty face that harbored so much fire and zeal, and the endearing laughter that would creep in, hold, and never let him go. Replaying their brief interlude brought about a wince in his stomach and a flutter in his heart, all at the same time.

Roy Mustang was attractive, personable, considerate, and passionate to a fault. But he did not make it a habit to date very often, unlike the persona he was currently trying to afford. All he had was experience growing up with five foster sisters, all much older than his own age of twenty-seven and as doting as sisters could be to a baby brother. In his back pocket, he wielded their wily advice, and his own personal ones picked up from bartending at his aunt's. Should the time come, he thought it might help Berthold just as well.

Then his mind conveniently sauntered back to the golden-haired girl who had hardly left it. It was an odd feeling to get hung up on a thirty-minute conversation with a woman. But it was enthralling, and so thoroughly wonderful... Then there was Claudio, slithering in and pricking venom into the moment, leaving a tumult in what could have been a perfect night.

"Sorry I'm late!"

When Roy turned around he found a very sweaty, beet-red version of Berthold. His flat, long hair was a disaster, curdling over his shoulders, hugging a worn-out face and sharpening even more of his angular features. Resting taut hands on his knees, Berthold pulled in a deep breath, loud and asthmatic, as though he had just run the marathon of his life.

"Are you okay?" Roy asked, rising up from the lounge chair.

"It's hot. I'm old and out of shape," he wheezed.

"How old are you?"

Berthold looked up, puffing, his brows knitted in confusion. "Fifty-two. Why? Does it matter?"

"It matters when we pick out your clothes. Get ready to spend  _a lot_  of money, especially if  _that_  is what you call your Sunday's best. You look like you're going golfing rather than to a church service. Don't you lawyers usually have a nice wardrobe collection?"

"You are disrespectful, did you know that?" he hissed.

"Just answer the question," Roy demanded.

"I have suits for when I have to show up to court."

Roy replied, "Noted. But before we start, let's take a seat. I want to talk to you."

Sober, Berthold didn't look much better than his intoxicated counterpart. He could use a haircut, Roy concluded, and perhaps a clean shave of his coarse, triangular beard. But beneath the obvious stress lines etched above brilliant emerald gaze, Roy recognized a man dedicated to his work - to his  _craft_. And it was something Roy felt he could understand. Knowing this, he hated to be the bearer of bad news.

Lifting his sunglasses, Roy stared into Berthold's eyes with solemnity, "First of all, you're late. Don't be late. Ever. Second, if you want your wife back, you need to work a lot less than you do now. Drop the case you're working on and give it to someone else. A capable right-hand, perhaps. From now on, your family comes first. No amount of makeover could buy her back if you don't do this."

Berthold looked like he had seen a ghost. A pale complexion rounded his dropping jaw, with a wide glare that seemed to stretch past his oval face. "I'm in the middle of an important case! That's impossible."

"No, it's not. Choose one.  _Which_  is more important?"

"I love my work. It keeps me sane," Berthold said. Roy simply stared, unmoving, unamused. Then Berthold shrugged his shoulders in defeat, "Alright fine, you win. For now. I would crush you any other day for speaking to me like that, but today, I'll let you have your way."

"Good," Roy smiled.

"But you said no amount of makeover could buy her back, then why am I still here? I've already agreed to hand over my case. Isn't that enough?"

"Couples get comfortable when they've been married for a long time," Roy said. "But what they need to understand is that flames  _do_  die, and you need to rekindle them by-" he poked Berthold on his chest, "taking care of yourself first. That includes how you look and how you feel about yourself." One of Roy's married sisters had told him that.

"I am completely happy with how I look," Berthold charged.

"You're happy looking like a hobo?" Roy countered, clasping his hands together in frustration.

For several seconds, Berthold just peered blankly. "Well, not if you put it that way."

"There you go. Then you better listen to me. Let's go."

"Wait," Berthold crowed. "What do  _you_  want out of helping me? I know you must want  _something_."

In some ways, Roy felt like a fraud. He wasn't the casanova he claimed to be. Though he would concede that the goddess Aphrodite had always looked upon him favorably, and he never had a shortage of beautiful women approaching him. If he hadn't been so heavily preoccupied with fulfilling a childhood dream, watching it play out in CinemaScope as he surrendered the days to the nights, then perhaps everything would have been different.

He would have been somebody else, living another life.

"Other than feeling good about helping someone..." Roy started, attuning to the rapid drumbeat of his heart. "Nothing. I'm just happy to help." He couldn't go through with the truth. "Anyways, enough about me."

"Also, I did tell you about my daughter. She's just as important in this whole thing as my wife, if not more-"

But Roy interrupted, "Don't ever,  _ever_  talk about your daughter in front of women other than your wife. They don't want to hear it. And your daughter will come around once you clear things up with your wife, so you don't have to worry about that. For now." Stealing a glance at his cellphone before slipping it in his pocket, Roy said, "Let's get going. I need to be somewhere before it gets dark."

They rose from their seats, Berthold less enthusiastic than Roy was. Scorn was permanently stamped on his face. And the man looked out of place, as if he had been living in a cave and only now emerged from it.

The inside of the shoe store boasted a minimalist design, with a line of oxfords strutting across a marble pedestal. There was only one man by the register. He wore a fitted two-piece suit and approached Berthold with a condescending stare. It was a store Roy hardly entered, but he knew one of his sisters had vouched for their flair and comfort.

Roy whispered, "Tell him you're looking for a pair of loafers for date nights."

The man came back with several boxes. Berthold lifted one up into the air, a style that Roy thought was wedged between obnoxious and eccentric. A gigantic silver buckle ran across the front leather flap of the snake-print loafer, and the tip of the shoe was so sharp it looked as if it could hurt someone.

"I like this one," Berthold said.

"No." Roy shook his head, disapproving. "Are you Elton John?"

Berthold shot him a puzzled look. "What? No."

"Then you have no right to wear something like that!"

Then he lifted another pair that looked like it belonged in a museum. In the European antique section.

"What are you? A hundred years old?" Roy snarled.

"You need to dial down that tone with me, boy," he barked. "I'm still your elder."

Every minute he spent with Berthold felt like he was fighting a court case; an injunction flying out of the old man's mouth, halting their progress, whenever he became overwhelmed. The man was impenetrable and stubborn, like the competent lawyer that he was.

But Roy knew he was going to win every single dispute.

"Do you want my help or not?" Roy bit back.

And just like that he would claim victory.

Next, they marched into BOSS for a couple of dress shirts and a fitted sports coat.

As if entering a lion's den, Berthold's posture curled mousily. His gait was sluggish, and he looked around like a timid critter. This was the first time Roy had seen him without his crown, his aura of authority taken away at a moment's notice. The man looked extremely uncomfortable, and Roy realized just how new, or transformative, the whole experience was to Berthold. The man  _had_  been living in a cave, and his wife was most likely responsible for filling up his closet.

"Are you alright?" Roy asked, truly concerned.

"Yeah. It's just- It's been so many years since I've gone clothes shopping."

"Your wife bought you your clothes?"

"She did."

"As much as I'd like to say you'll get her back, you need to prepare for the worst. You might have to go shopping by yourself in the future," Roy said prudently. Though he had never been in Berthold's situation, he could sympathize.

The next store sold Roy's choice of designer jeans. The price was steep, but their denim wrapped around his bottom half with perfection, solidifying his confidence just as nicely as it shaped his butt. Berthold could use some to accentuate his flat, homely cheeks, Roy decided.

"Have you seen these prices? Each one is two hundred bucks. I could fill up my tank four times with this money! Ridiculous!" Berthold exclaimed.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, Roy clenched his fists in irritation. "BOSS was way more expensive than this. I didn't hear you complaining earlier."

"But those were suits and dress shirts. This is for a pair of jeans. I can get one at Marshall's for twenty bucks."

"Are you for real?" Roy couldn't help but look offended.

Berthold looked confused.

It was the fifth time in the day that Roy uttered the Lord's name. He was beseeching for patience and forgiveness. He hoped he wasn't going to hell for pulling off a philandering stunt, all the while attempting to atone for his sins by actually, genuinely, wanting to help Berthold.

He didn't remember how he convinced the man to spend a good chunk of his hard-earned money on fashionable wear. The day breezed through him as though a phantom memory. He thought of Riza every now and then, and everytime he was able to sneak in a few seconds and grasp a clear picture of her, Berthold would disrupt the instance. The man would ask for advice, finally, of which items would suit him better and which one was more appropriate for his age.

At the end of the day, with four shopping bags in Berthold's hand, Roy sensed a flicker of pride and relief. Excited, Roy could hardly wait when his hard work would come to full bloom.

Lastly, Roy directed them to the hair salon at the corner end of the mall. His sisters frequented it often, and he was glad to be well acquainted with Carolina, one of the stylists there. For as long as he could remember, Carolina was never scant of compliments for him.

Entering the storefront, with crystal clear glass panels pulling from the ceiling to ground, Roy greeted the wavy brunette at the counter, "Hey Carol."

"Hi Roy. Fancy a haircut? How are Vanessa and Madeline doing?" Carolina asked with a playful wink.

Berthold creased the skin between his brows. "Vanessa? Madeline? Are they your ladies?" he whispered near his ear. "Is she, too? She seems so friendly with you."

"Something like that," Roy breathed, lying through his teeth. Vanessa and Madeline were his sisters. But Carolina seemed to hold a fondness for him, Roy surmised. He turned to Berthold, scooping him by the shoulder. "Carol, this is a friend of mine. His name is Berthold. Will you be a dear and get him a nice haircut?"

"You bet, hon. What style are you thinking?"

"What do  _you_  think?" Roy asked, flashing her a disarming smile. "You're the expert around here."

Coyly, she slapped Roy on the shoulder, giggling. Then, sizing Berthold up and down, she tilted her head against her shoulder. "I'm thinking clean-cut Johnny Depp, like his hairstyle in  _Public Enemies_? He has the same sharp features with the protruding cheekbones. The beard's kind of strange though…"

Inwardly, Roy was cackling. But he was able to suppress the hysteria of imagining lanky Berthold as the actor who was once deemed the sexiest man alive. Instead, one corner of Roy's mouth curled up, and he said, "Don't worry about the beard. It'll compliment his looks once you've done your magic."

"Alright. Anything for you, Roy," Carol simpered.

Within an hour, Berthold was ready. The man was a well-oiled vintage Aston Martin, polished and buffed, every turn of his appearance gleaming anew; he was impeccable. His dirty blond strands no longer reflected his solitary preference. Rather, he looked as if he were a regular at the most posh nightclub in Los Angeles, a glass of Château Cheval Blanc never empty in his hand. He wasn't Johnny Depp, but perhaps Sean Penn in his best year.

That was good enough for Roy.

"Carol, what do you think?" Roy asked, nodding approvingly at Berthold.

Carol tilted her head to the side. Darting a generous stare from top to bottom, she said, "I'd tap that. Yeah."

Roy laughed.

Shaking his head, as though in disbelief, Berthold said, "You would? You know I'm old enough to be your father." Then he started to chuckle softly, seemingly pleased with himself.

With a triumphant smile, Roy strode towards Berthold. Through it all, his true intention slipped past his mind, and the industry connection he so longed to possess became secondary, if only for a while. Delight continued to seep onto his expression, spreading a wide grin. Roy clapped the man's shoulders affably. "We've done very well today, Berthold."

* * *

 

The uppity woman glared at the coffee as if Riza had poured in a vial of poison in it.

"I asked for mocha latte. This is black coffee," she barked, pointing at the mug.

Riza could have sworn the woman had ordered a cup of Americano. "I apologize, ma'am. I'll replace it right away," she said with a small smile, concealing the fierce roar in her head.

"Riza… Riza!" Rebecca crowed from the register.

When her sight flitted to the register, the thought of fixing the cup of coffee in her hand was soon forgotten. A familiar face greeted her, and she felt her heart drop to her stomach, fast and sudden. Her professional decorum was never this upbeat, but Riza could sense her pulse jiving to the bop of blues drum in the background.

Her low heels cheerfully clapped against the tiled floor as she pranced towards him, her eyes stretching as wide as her lips. "Hi Roy. Well, this is a surprise... What are you doing here?"

Behind the counter, Riza could feel her legs wobbling as he smiled, friendly yet alluring. "Hey Riza."

Rebecca murmured in her ear, her tone prodding and a tad too loud for her liking, "When did  _this_  happen?"

Her gaze never left his as she hissed, "Shut up, Becca."

"What time are you off?" Roy asked. Under the softness of his tone was a well-dressed man, contrasting her own plain white, buttoned-up shirt. He was spruced up, with slicked back hair that told her he was there to take her out on a date.

"Not for another hour actually," Riza said mournfully, wiping clammy hands on her apron.

"Go. Just go. I got you covered, my dear," Rebecca whispered from behind, and Riza could hear the prattling of porcelain mugs in her hands.

Normally, she would give Rebecca the cordial refusal, wave her off and tell her an excuse; Riza would never condone to skipping out early. But the sense of guilt never came, and she glided towards her friend and kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks, Becca! I owe you one."

"You owe me a story later!" her friend shouted.

Rushing out, they traipsed through a wave of people who seemed incredibly starstruck by the front facade of the Dolby Theater in glowing fonts. It was a look bared only by out-of-towners, people who weren't attuned to the glitzy and allure of Hollywood.

"You work in the middle of tourist town, Riza," Roy remarked wryly, slithering through a flock of sightseers who were watching a street performer with great enjoyment, their vision plastered to the man in the center.

The intersection was jam-packed with all sorts of people 365 days a year. The brass stars that lined the pavement spelled out generations of media persona, from musicians to actors and everything in between, and they would drag in nonstop festivities to this part of town. To Riza, it wasn't the bright spotlights and traces of stardom that lured her here... it was the generous tips that these visitors left at the coffee shop.

Both of her hands in her jeans pocket, she squeezed through a throng of foreign tourists who were descending from a bus.

Riza said, "The Hollywood Walk of Fame is what keeps the coffee shop afloat. And considering what you aspire to be, I thought you would like it."

"Honestly, only the historical sites are worth visiting," Roy began. "The Chinese Theater has some pretty cool history attached to it. But these stars? They're a bunch of bullshit. Did you know you can mail in your application to get one? Of course you have to be famous, but it really isn't that hard to get your name erected if you've been acting or singing for a while. There isn't much merit to it."

Riza clipped her gait beside Roy, hedging, "Okay, so we're stepping on Harrison Ford. You can't tell me you don't like Harrison Ford. He's kind of a big deal."

"I like Harrison Ford. I could watch  _Raiders of the Lost Ark_  all day," Roy mused aloud. "Or  _Blade Runner_  when the mood strikes."

"Favorite movie," Riza called.

"That's tough…  _Schindler's List_  is up there," Roy said, raising his voice as they flitted through a crowd. "It's symbolic, it's haunting, it's  _real_. It was a heavy period piece shot brilliantly. Spielberg toed between whimsical and dramatic, and it just  _worked_. Ralph Fiennes was top-notch, and there was so much emotions involved. Yours?"

" _Batman and Robin_."

Roy stopped in his step, curt and abrupt. He looked at her with disdain, and his nose wrinkled as if he were sniffing something unpleasant. "Are you serious?"

"Of course not. I think that might be one of the worst movies ever made actually," she chuckled. "One of my favorite films is  _Stand by Me_. The loss of innocence and coming of age movies just have a special place in my heart."

He whistled, "Good, because I would have to stop talking to you if you were serious about, you know… George Clooney and his bat-nipples. Favorite actor?"

"I really like Gregory Peck…" Riza said with a wispy voice that edged on dreamy.

"I like him, too.  _To Kill a Mockingbird_?"

"Yeah, and  _Gentleman's Agreement_ , if you've seen that movie."

Roy nodded.

They strolled a few more steps, straining and contracting the space in between as they weaved through the raucous street and past a line of cosplayers.

"Here, give me your hand," Roy said, offering his with a palm up. "I keep losing you to these crowds."

Her heart leaped out and returned with a distracting bounce, and it hadn't stopped. Praying the cascading sunset would disguise the heat on her cheeks, Riza took his hand and wrapped her fingers around it, diffidently.

Another star, another name. Through the sheen of his eyes, Riza understood. She saw a man who appreciated the art for what it was, someone who wanted to create and simply tell a story. Everything else that came with it - the applause, the adulation, all of that - was unimportant. They were alike in that way.

"Oh, Fred Astaire! I enjoyed his movies with Ginger Rogers!" Riza exclaimed. "And I see Ingrid Bergman. You can't tell me you don't fall in love with Ingrid Bergman in  _Casablanca_."

"Actually, you're spot on. Ilsa was my first crush," Roy laughed. "And  _you_  are definitely an old soul. Everyone you named are dead."

"That's one way to ruin the mood," she replied, shooting him a derisive smile.

"So... is Claudio your Bogart?"

Reluctant, she answered him with a mousy voice. "Yeah… kind of. We've been dating a couple of months..."

"Is he a musician?"

"He's a musician."

Tentatively, as though soaking in the impropriety of their gesture, Roy released her hand. But even so, he kept an intimate distance. Their shoulders touched and withdrew, vectoring towards each other yet again, a verse they rehearsed over and over. Under the swirling sky, Riza could hear the playful sway of black-and-white keys humming to their stride. It slowed their gait, stretching the seconds to minutes.

They departed the commotion of Hollywood, walking three blocks to a dim hush that tiptoed between romantic and wistful.

Before them stood the record store Riza often visited. At night, the atmosphere was even more buoyant, charming passersby with its bygone-era jazz. When her heels found purchase on their matted storefront, she wanted to skip her way in, pick out her favorite record and listen to it until her ears were parched and then thirsty again.

"You want to go in?" Riza asked.

Roy smiled, "Of course."

The store was a long, narrow hallway with one aisle that stretched to infinity. The neon sign outside was brighter than the dim candelabra that dotted the interior walls, and it gave the space an old-fashioned look that matched the music it played. Vinyl records marched their way across; there must be thousands, or even in the ten-thousands, each one carrying a tune meant for somebody.

Venturing in, she tapped an employee-friend on the shoulder. "Seb, I'll be using the back room again."

The man raised a thumbs-up. "You got it."

Turning to Roy, she asked, "What kind of music do you listen to? We can take it to the back room and listen."

"Why don't you pick one?" he smiled. "I want to know what you like to listen to."

"The Beatles?"

"Okay.  _The White Album_?"

She tilted her head in astonishment. "Huh. You continue to surprise me each day, Roy Mustang."

The back room could barely fit the both of them. It was a small, rectangular prism that extended to the ceiling, much like a public phone booth no one used anymore. There was one window that overlooked the motley collections. The adjacent sides were grey walls that held a pair of headphones above a modern record player sitting atop a metal rack.

"Remember what I told you before?" Riza said. "About listening in the dark?"

Roy nodded. "That you can hear their soul in the songs? I remember."

"I'm gonna turn off the lights. Don't be scared. I'm here to protect you," she chuckled.

"I might need you to comfort me afterwards," Roy quipped back.

The headphone concealed his ears, and Riza flipped the switch. Guided by the lights from the turntable, she played a track for him. Her favorite.

She could only see a ghost of his expression; the darkness drowned everything else. But she sensed his body heat radiating through her skin, and she heard an uptake of his breath, a sudden release, and a hold. It seemed as though his respiration flowed to the brittle strum of  _Blackbird_.

"Riza?"

Her eyes adjusted and traveled up to a row of white pearly teeth that captured a parting mouth.

"Yeah?"

He was mute.

And she realized he probably couldn't hear her. She poked his face.

"Is this your favorite track? Because it's mine now," Roy whispered, and there was a shudder in his voice.

The hour and a half passed like a breeze. The tiny compartment seemed to have expanded, fitting an entire living room of songs and discussions, talks of likes and dislikes and the hilarity of it all. The full album was scratched dry, and the ease of a conversation ran the course of their night.

When it was time to leave, they flicked on the light, tidied the room, and exited the booth pumped with laughter.

But everything in the store was dark.

"Um… why aren't the lights on?" Roy asked.

"I… don't know." Then she remembered. "What time is it?"

Taking out his cellphone, Roy said, "It's about ten."

She slapped her forehead. "Uh- I forgot they close at nine on Sundays. I am so sorry. When I turned off the lights, they probably couldn't tell we were inside. I'm gonna make a call to Seb… just hang tight a minute."

There was a part of her that hoped Seb wouldn't arrive so quickly. It was unsolicited, but it came nevertheless.

The time she spent with Roy bought her knowledge worth a year. It just occurred to her that the five months she had known Claudio never translated to a fruitful back-and-forth, or a fruitful anything other than the world they were submerged in. It was mostly about his arrangement or her composition, his career or her lack of one. It never traversed beyond that. Perhaps dating a fellow musician wasn't always so desirable.

Seb picked up, and he promised to be back on-site in less than an hour. He lived on the outskirt of Los Angeles, and horrible traffic was never a joke, day or night, rain or shine, weekend or weekday. After spurting numerous apologies to the cackling employee, she dragged her feet towards the folding-gated storefront and sat on the floor, gesturing to Roy.

"You want to sit? It's gonna take him some time to get here."

Roy slid down against the window and took a seat beside her, with a soft brush against her arm. Accidental or not, she was more interested in figuring out more of the person beneath the sleeve.

Apparently, Roy thought the same.

"What got you into songwriting? Or singing?"

Riza replied with a nostalgic smile, "My mom. She was always playing the guitar ever since I could remember. And when we moved to Los Angeles from up north, she joined a band that started here locally. They used to perform at all the venues around here - The Wiltern, Teragram Ballroom. They had quite a following, and the band was always practicing in our garage..."

She could sense his attentive gaze as she talked, remaining fully on her as though she were the most important person in the world. Pulling her legs towards her chest, she rested her hands over bent knees, rubbing circles on them.

"But… well-" and Riza could feel heat diffusing around the back of her skull, pricking her vision, "when they became popular and a studio asked to produce, things just kind of went downhill from there…"

"What happened?" Roy asked, breathless.

"Let's just say fame got into their heads, then the band started fighting a lot about directions and musical composition and things like that. Eventually, they broke up," Riza said with a great sigh. "And then my mom got depressed and drank herself to death."

Blanketing the hand on her knee, Roy said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks. That was years ago," Riza said, letting him take her hand to squeeze it mildly. "What about you? Why are you so...  _passionate_  about acting?"

In the dark, Riza could see a shift in his expression, his whole life and dreams spilling out in front of her.

"My aunt raised me. She runs a dive bar in Silver Lake with my foster sisters who are all older than me. We all lived in the apartment above it. As a kid, I used to have a lot of free time when they were all prepping and working. I would sneak out of the house and go to the two-dollar theater nearby," Roy chuckled.

Turning to face her, he continued, "And one day, I went to see  _Forrest Gump_. I probably shouldn't have been there. I was like seven or eight- I don't remember, but it was a PG-13 movie. At the end of it, when the credit finally rolled, everyone just sat there all quiet… There weren't that many people watching it during the day, but I turned to my right and looked at this older woman sitting next to me, and she was wiping her eyes."

He sprang up enthusiastically, speaking his excitement through hand motions, "And this woman was weeping, crying  _a fountain_! And I just looked at her and thought… Wow, that was the most incredible thing I'd ever seen. A movie can really move you; it can make you sad one moment and happy the next. And sometimes, when it is done well, you'd be driving home and all you can think about is that specific scene from the movie - how it makes you so emotional, and how it makes you question things!"

Then he laughed, pointing his index finger tautly into the air. "Anyway, from that day onward I told myself I'm going to be  _in there_ ,  _on that screen_ , and I'm going to make someone laugh or cry."

His energy was infectious, and Riza couldn't help but catch the joy and laugh along with him.

"So speaking of acting…" Roy cleared his throat, a bashfulness rolling in his tone. He sat back down beside her. "Our summer camp performance is next Saturday at eight. Since you watched me rehearse, perhaps you'd be interested in watching the full production...?"

When she didn't say anything, Roy quickly added, "That is, if you're not busy with singing and guitar playing and stuff. Don't worry if you can't. I totally under-"

"I'd love to," she interrupted, placating his nervous hand by clasping it and squeezing it underneath her own. She smiled, "I'll be there, Stanley Kowalski."

But when his eyes were quiet and moved towards their joined hands and then back up to snare her gaze, Riza sat motionless. The seconds ticked and time flew past, but the song of a promise and an anticipation lingered, until finally, she could no longer deny the spark that flared between them. She  _knew_  then he'd seen it, too. She stared at his mouth and caught her lip between her teeth.

The sound of twisting locks clicked, and Riza abruptly abandoned Roy's hand with a hasty toss.

Behind them a light suddenly turned on, and Seb appeared beyond the glass door. "Sorry it took so long guys. I got here as fast as I could."


	4. the dusty mic and neon glow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Work has been keeping me occupied, but I live! Special thanks to waddiwasiwitch and fullmetalscully for the help with Riza's stepmom's name.

Riza's life was turned upside down when her mother fell unconscious and wouldn't wake. There was a cluster of empty wine and liquor bottles on Tereza Hawkeye's vanity table. Beside them, crumpled pages filled with rounded black notes lay scattered, verses that seemed to convey her mother's fragile state of mind scratched right below each staff.

It was ten years ago, and the tragedy had come and gone like a bad dream. All Riza could remember was the loud sirens of the ambulance and fire trucks, the devastating red-and-blue light that drowned not only the night but her entire world. Then there were her neighbors, chirping about beyond the gate of their two-story mansion with too much fanfare. Her stomach had twisted painfully and churned acid up her throat, knowing that these people only cared about them now that news of her mother's death had stirred public interest.

Riza supposed tonight's dinner had been a long time coming. Today would have been her mother's fifty-second birthday, had she been alive. Coincidentally, today was also his second wife's fiftieth birthday. And today also marked the half-year point in which Riza last spoke to her father.

But Riza wasn't there, sitting cordially with both hands gripping her utensils, for Berthold. Riza was there for  _her_. As far as stepmother went, Eva Hawkeye was neither evil nor wicked. She was as wonderful as the fairy godmother was to Cinderella, providing Riza with guidance and support in time of need, especially during her time of grieving.

As much as it broke Riza's heart to see Eva's gritted teeth in the past few months, it was even more unsettling to see an oscar-worthy performance between Eva and Berthold. They acted as though the wounds in their relationship had mended. As if talk of divorce had never happened.

"Please pass the butter," Berthold requested, his voice warmer than usual.

"Here you go," Eva replied, handing the small platter to Berthold on her left. The woman's mouth curved in fake-delight below her normally gleaming, light-blue eyes. But underneath her stepmother's soft voice, Riza could pick out the underlying disdain.

"Thank you," Berthold said, reaching for the plate. There was a bodily jolt, infinitesimally, when his fingers brushed Eva's by perchance. Riza could only cringe privately when her stepmother flinched at his touch. Her father dusted off the awkwardness by pushing onward with another question, "How was your day, Eva?"

"Good..." Eva answered, reluctantly. She cleared her throat, "How was yours, Berthold?"

"Great."

Stainless steel clinked against porcelain.

Silence took over for a short moment.

A mild cough from Berthold, and the sound of liquid pouring into a half-filled glass.

Now that Riza had sat through an hour of friction, she could not fathom why the birthday dinner had taken place as it did. It should have never happened, considering the undesirable attitude from all the parties involved. Riza looked up and observed through her thick lashes at the two teenagers, one petulant and one nervous, discharging more electricity in the broad space between them than a power plant.

She attempted to remedy the tension with frivolity, "Father, I see you got a haircut. It looks… different. Do you like it?"

"Yes, I like it. A friend told me I needed one." Her father flared her a wide smile, forced and unforeseen, dotting her skin with the willies. "How was your day, Elizabeth?"

"Um, it's alright. I had an early shift at the coffee shop, so I'm a little tired..."

With a beaming smile, Eva turned to her. Her poised demeanor returned, and all distaste for tonight's event disappeared, if only for a while. "Did you write any new songs, Riza?"

Shooting a glance at her father, Riza scanned his expression, seeing a visible twinge on his brow. Music had always been a sensitive subject for the man. Her mother's premature passing had only exacerbated it. While Riza had not planned for the conversation to funnel this direction, she understood Eva only had the best intentions in mind.

"Yes, I did."

Eva beamed, "Oh! Tell me more."

She put her fork down, drove her food down her throat, and said, "It was inspired by a recent... happenstance. It's a song about reaffirming one's passion and sharing it with another, and how both push each other to do better."

"That's wonderful, Riza. I'd love to hear you play it."

"I will be recording it eventually," Riza chuckled, "and you can come to the studio when I do."

"Of course! I'll be there."

When Riza finally had the chance to capture another glimpse of Berthold, she sensed that her father had grown restless, uncomfortable. Berthold loosened his tie, unbuttoning the top of his collar with a hasty flick of his fingers. He fanned himself with his dress shirt, as though the temperature was unbearable.

"Did you do anything fun today?" Berthold interjected, flicking a meaningful glance at his wife.

There was a pause as Eva chewed her meal and swallowed it with a calmness on her face. She didn't bother tilting her chin up to meet her husband's generous glare. "Not really. I went to pick up the dry clean then went to the office to finish some work. Our latest client is very demanding. Yours?"

"Nothing much besides enjoying a quiet time to myself. Ever since I handed my case to Bradley's team, I've been less busy. I took a stroll at Santa Monica pier this morning to people watch and to just…  _live life_..."

Riza felt as though her father was swirling the last words in his mouth before spitting it out, tasting the essence on his tongue and seeing if he wanted to go back for seconds. Riza didn't think he would.

Eva nodded. "That's good."

But the tension between them only billowed out with her stepmother's ready acknowledgment. No conversation had ever made her feel so uneasy until now. Riza had to tamp down the urge to lift her knife, stab the sharp tip into the air, and slice up the strain into tiny pieces.

And it was only made worse when her father surmised that the acknowledgment had meant  _something_. Berthold looked up at Eva and smiled. "I'll take you to the pier sometime."

When Eva met his soft gaze, her expression hardened. "It would've been nice if you had offered to take me  _months_  ago, Berthold."

He looked aghast, and Riza saw the pain vividly etched on his face. "Well Eva, I am offering it to you now-"

"It's kind of too late for that, Bert-"

Hurriedly, Riza leapt from her chair, both palms firm on the table. "Okay, let's stop here before this conversation gets out of hand." Raising her voice, she said, "Dad, just- just stop talking. You're making everything worse for yourself by spouting those promises."

"Right. I'm sorry," Berthold said. He scratched his throat with a forced cough, "Elizabeth, you said you're tired from working at the coffee shop. Maybe you should move back home with us, then you won't ever have to worry about paying rent."

Irritated, Riza pierced a glare his way. Curtly, she pointed a curt index finger at him. "You _told me_  if I were going to pursue music, I would have to get out of your house!"

Berthold jerked up from his seat, snarling, "You know why I don't want you dabbling in music!"

Imitating his pose, Riza hissed, "What's wrong with doing something I love?"

With flame covering his cheeks, her father bellowed, "How many times do I have to repeat myself? I don't want you to end up like your mother!"

"And when are you going to learn to trust  _me_? I've told you a million times I won't end up like mom!"

Across from her, Eva rose from her seat in silent composure. Her eyes were closed as she pulled in a deep breath, blocking her sight with the pillows of her palms, as though the action would rid the room of their quarrel. Eva expelled a breath, "Berthold."

Their argument ceased, and Berthold rolled a glance at her. "Yes, dear?"

"I don't want to add fuel to the fire, but I've been waiting to say it..."

"What is it?"

Her stepmother pulled the seat next to her, dragging it closer. She lifted up and shoved a few pages of a document onto the dining table. "I signed the divorce paper this morning. It just needs your signature. I've already checked everything, and believe me when I said I'm not asking for anything. No financial obligations. Nothing."

Surprised, Riza stammered as she stared at the document then back up at her stepmother's placid face, "You-you actually are going to go ahead with the divorce? I mean, you mentioned it last time, but I didn't think you were serious!"

"I'm sorry you have to find out this way, Riza," Eva replied, the corners of her lips curving weakly. Her stepmother looked unappeased, "Your father and I have been discussing the future of our… relationship for a few weeks now."

Digging his fingers into his hair, Berthold protested, "Eva, we haven't discussed anything about divorce!"

"Berthold, please. You know this was coming."

"Dad?" Riza croaked. "How could  _you_  do this to Eva? She's been nothing but nice, and caring, and helpful!"

"Me? It's not my fault!" he barked in frustration, gripping his hair. "She's the one that's been sleeping around!"

"Dad!"

"Berthold!"

Throwing his arms down, he pushed his chair back in a harsh screech and left the table. He was flustered, Riza was sure, and he reached into his trouser pocket to begin dialing a number.

"Dad, what are you doing?"

"I-I have to talk to him. I need to tell him what's happening… I need advice."

"Berthold!" Eva growled. "Who the hell are you calling?"

With a dismissive wave of his hand and a troubled frown, Berthold scurried across the marble floor, the device against his ear. Eva threw her napkin on the table, harshly. Her heels rummaged the dining room and proceeded to the kitchen, an empty wine glass in her hand.

In the commotion, Riza's own cellphone began to vibrate, and she pulled it out in urgency, her sweaty palm sticky against the metallic case.

_Claudio 7:19PM: Where are you? It starts in ten._

Cursing under her breath, the memory of her months-old promise to Claudio came to life. She would be there to watch his debut, and he would be there to watch hers. Though they had been on rocky waters and had hardly spoken in recent times, Riza Hawkeye didn't have the heart to turn him down. Partly out of obligation as his girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend, whatever they were now.

And then there was-

_Becca 7:20PM: Girl, where you at?_

_Becca 7:20PM: Jean's lookin' fiiiine tonight. But he still hasn't asked me out. Wtf?_

_Becca 7:22PM: Seriously, where are you? You're usually on my ass about time._

_Becca 7:23PM: Don't be late! Lover boy's waiting ;)_

_Becca 7:24PM: Gracia's lucky Maes isn't a fucking wuss. That dude worked fast!_

In a hurry, Riza raced to the kitchen to find her stepmother. Upon finding her, she kissed Eva's flushed cheek, the woman's pale, blonde curls accentuating the unhealthy red shade. "Sorry for leaving you like this Eva, but I have to go. I'll call you later, okay?"

Riza could smell the wine when Eva replied, "That's okay, dear. You do what you gotta do."

When she sped in her car, all Riza could think about was how to tell Roy she wouldn't be able to make it. His would start in thirty minutes, and Claudio's would end in an hour. Santa Monica Theater was on the other side of town, with a stretch of honking cars and a row of frustrated drivers 24/7. Hitting the first sign of traffic jam, she berated herself once again for forgetting about Claudio's and remembering everything about Roy's.

* * *

 

With shallow breaths, Roy hiked up the staircase two steps at a time. Pushing the rooftop entrance with a force, he answered his phone, struggling for air, "Berthold? What's up?"

As attentive as he could afford, Roy listened to the older man on the other line, traipsing through his breathless mumbling and frantic screeching about his wife and daughter. Roy attempted to assemble Berthold's gloomy tale into something cohesive, but he realized it was difficult with half of his mind peeled on his lines and the other distracted by the ear-splitting city noise down below.

At the end of the call, Berthold sighed aloud, sounding thoroughly defeated.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Roy said, the compassion coming through in his voice more than he'd intended. "And will you be okay the rest of the night?"

Berthold stumbled through his words, asserting that he was alright though uncertainty seeped in his tone. Roy truly wanted to calm the man, reassure him that everything would be okay, but in the midst of their conversation, someone had found him on the rooftop and tapped him on the shoulder.

Roy recognized him as one of the production crews. The young man mouthed something to Roy, pointing to his wristwatch and lifting both of his hands in front of Roy's face, fanning all ten fingers. When Roy stared at him, motionless and impassive, the man whispered, "Roll call in ten minutes." Nodding in understanding, Roy waited until the man left and retreated to a secluded corner on the roof.

"Berthold?" Roy interrupted kindly, "I have to go, but we can meet up for a drink tomorrow night. Hang in there, okay? Yes, that's fine. Okay, bye."

As Roy rushed down from the rooftop, he inhaled through his nose to pacify his heartbeat. His body pumped with vigor, and nervousness had been a friend throughout the day. Feeling a tingle on the tips of his fingers, he recited lines in his head, putting off the swirling thoughts of Berthold and his unfortunate circumstance until tomorrow.

Approaching backstage, Roy smothered his breath. Thoughts of Riza resurfaced, almost as a stern reminder to give it his  _all_. Never had he wanted to impress someone as badly as tonight, not even to some important members of his audition calls. Upon climbing onto the left wing, he saw Maes in a prim and pristine dress shirt, looking a little too overjoyed with himself. His friend stood in perfect posture, Gracia's arm around his.

Maes extended his hand and pulled Roy into a bear hug. "Good luck, man."

"Thanks, Maes." Roy turned to Gracia, drawing her into a cordial hug. "Good to see you again, Gracia." He flashed a knowing smirk at Maes, who caught it and, in turn, ruffled the back of his hair, a shade of crimson washing over his cheeks.

"We're looking forward to your performance, Roy," Gracia smiled.

"Thank you. I hope you'll like it."

"Riza persuaded me to watch the movie after sneaking into your rehearsal," Gracia said. "She kept saying how great you were."

Maes grinned, mischief reigning over his face. "Roy, did you hear that? Riza said you were  _great_. You invited her, right? I would imagine so after that little  _date_  you had. You've been talking about her to me nonstop for the past few weeks."

He could always count on Maes to make him feel embarrassed on one of the biggest nights of his life. Taking a glimpse of Gracia, Roy saw an amused expression. She simply held a small smile, wordless, staring at Roy as though curious as to how he would react to the statement.

"I don't talk about her  _that_  much," Roy retorted, a sheepish gaze rolling to the side. "The last time I called you about her was  _days_  ago..."

"Text messages count, too, you know."

In retaliation, Roy pointed towards a sliver in the curtain - towards the audience, who had filled the extensive row of the red, theater seating. "Okay well, you guys better take your seats. We're starting soon." He took a peek and stole a glimpse of Jean and Rebecca in the front row, fanning themselves with the pamphlet. There were three empty seats beside them, presumably for Maes, Gracia, and Riza.

Gracia nodded and Maes murmured in agreement. But when he saw them leaving, Roy stammered out, "Have you... seen… Riza?"

The play's director strolled by, a clipboard in his arm. He replied as though he had heard the whole of their conversation, "Full house tonight, Roy. Two hundred people. Your girl's probably already in her seat."

Roy knew she wasn't, but he let out a nervous chuckle, "Two hundred? Most are friends and family, right?" It would have been a lie to say he wasn't slightly intimidated by the comment.

"I don't think so," the lanky, older man supplied, nonchalantly, brisking across the stage for the right wing.

Groaning, Roy pulled on the collar of Stanley Kowalski's form-fitting grey shirt with anxious fingers. The outfit never bothered him before. Now, it felt too constricting.

Maes was first to answer him, "No, we haven't seen Riza. She's probably running late. Traffic's pretty bad tonight."

"I texted her earlier, and she replied just now-" The phone screen illuminating her face, Gracia read aloud,  _"If you see Roy, please tell him I'm sorry, I won't be able to make it tonight."_ She looked up, mouthing her own sympathy with doleful eyes.

His heart sank upon hearing the message. The glimmer of excitement that had been accompanying him vanished when he learned she wouldn't be there. Disappointment and a hint of irritation soaked in, and Roy knew they would stick to him like a plague the rest of the night. He only prayed it wouldn't show through his performance.

Clapping Roy's shoulder lightly, Maes said, "Sorry to hear that, buddy. But I know you'll do great. Riza or no Riza." Then he waved a hand, offering his arm to Gracia beside him. "We're going to take our seats now. I'll see you later?"

"Yup… alright."

The heavy, red curtain pulled up and revealed the backdrop, a staged Elysian Fields Avenue, a two-story, brick building and a railroad track. The notorious blue piano at the Four Deuces - the bar next door - roosted in place, its melody tittering along in the air. His fingers curling tautly with convictions, Roy hauled in a deep breath and set aside all pestering considerations - chants of failure, streams of pointless worrying, and the absence of a certain golden-haired woman.

He closed his eyes.

The intense glare of the audience faded to black, the suppressed coughs and soft mumbling now drowned and distant. It was just him, basking in the spotlight.

A bowling jacket draped on his arm, Stanley Kowalski strutted the streets of New Orleans like he owned it. He stopped. He looked up at the woman on the balcony. The flat, nonchalant line of his lips drew up into a smirk, seductive. Irresistible. His posture reined in arrogance and pride, displaying the fascinating man for all to see. With a booming voice at the top of his lungs, Stanley called to her,  _"Hey, there! Stella, baby!"_

* * *

 

She made it just in time.

By then, the general audience floor was jam-packed, shoulder to shoulder, and the crowd thriving. When Riza faced the stage, Claudio was standing there, his guitar slung across his torso. He seemed like a completely different person, one she did not know intimately. His presence was out of reach, and his persona unfamiliar, with a sea of spectators serving as a divider.

He found her in the ocean and smiled in acknowledgment.

She smiled back reflexively.

It was almost hard to believe that Claudio was merely an opening act for the concert. Riza doubted the group of young girls beside her knew who Claudio Rico was. This was supposed to be his first act. But their screams and excitement were nothing indicative of that. Perhaps it was the way he addressed the crowd, with that confident smile and charming good looks that had melted her heart when they first met. Perhaps it was just him being on that stage, plucking his guitar underneath the atmospheric magenta lights and a wisp of stage smoke.

The City of Angel's new heartthrob.

"My first song is called  _Anywhere We Go_ ," Claudio announced, his tone lacing a bashfulness that told Riza he was still getting used to the attention he was receiving. "Originally written as a ballad, but it's been tweaked to a faster beat that I love."

_Liar._

If composing with Claudio for the past half year had taught her anything, it reinforced the fact that he appreciated and indulged in writing ballads as much as she enjoyed listening to the upbeat  _Mrs. Robinson_  while taking her morning coffee.

When Claudio strummed his first tune and hummed its verse, the same frustration as that night at the diner started to sink in. Nothing had changed. It was still a tick too upbeat than the original. It still employed too many synthesizers.

The soul of the song hadn't returned. Everything about it was a large departure from Claudio's endearing style.

But Riza promised herself that she would stay and listen. She would breathe in the music as it was meant to be presented. Maybe she would change her mind after the bridge, or even enjoy it the second time around. Besides, who was to say that her hearing hadn't been compromised that night at the diner? The terrace speakers at Chateau Marmont  _had_  been blaring in her ears.

Riza pinched her bottom lip in between her teeth, her feet firm beneath her. Her small crossbody purse was clutched tightly in one hand, as though it would help anchor her stance and prevent her body from turning around and sprinting out of the ballroom.

The crowd was pumping, and she found herself watching Claudio from a greater distance than when she started. The number of screaming girls beside her seemed to have multiplied by the end of the song, shoving her backwards and to the side. They loved him. The crowd adored him.

Another song played, one she was less familiar with, and Claudio Rico swooped in once again and came out a superstar.

Guilt rose and filled her up when she realized she despised what became of him. It felt unfair to walk away now, but it was what she wanted to do.

And she did exactly that.

Squeezing through a throng of sweaty and uproarious concertgoers, Riza ran to her car, jumping through puddles and dashing through the gritty sidewalk with one objective in her mind.

Her father once told her she would make a wonderful kindergarten teacher. Riza Hawkeye was a calm, quiet child, and she blossomed into a young woman who had perfected the art of forbearance and impeccable self-control. But with a string of car accidents on the 10 Freeway, extending her drive to Santa Monica from twenty-five minutes to forty-four, Riza couldn't help but develop a case of irritable temper. She blasted her horn at the rubberneckers, cursing out loud, "Holy shit people, stop looking and start driving!"

She arrived in record time of thirty-six minutes by weaving through lanes and avoiding curious drivers. She fought for parking, locked her car, and leapt out of her vehicle in one smooth motion as though she was completing the last set of an obstacle course.

The front entrance was locked when she arrived. Rattling the knob with ferocity, Riza twirled her head left and right for another entry point. Without thinking twice she bolted outside and fled around the building, discovering the theater's back access. Her chignon freed itself and cascaded down her shoulders, the July heat clinging onto her back. She panted and gasped for air, stealing her way in when the unmarked door opened effortlessly.

A dampened, velvety voice carried her down a narrow hallway and up a small set of stairs. Riza landed herself backstage, her searching eyes halting immediately at the captivating view before her.

" _She didn't show you no papers, no deed of sale or nothing like that, huh?"_  Stanley inquired suspiciously.

" _It seems like it wasn't sold."_

His expression darkened, and Riza could see how Roy's face contoured with anger, hard lines etched on his forehead.  _"Well what in hell was it then, give away? To charity?"_

Under the glowing stagelight, Roy Mustang coaxed her into a stun as he delivered each phrase. There was so much passion,  _vehemence_  beneath the fluidity of his voice. The way she stared in awe reminded her of a scene almost two decades ago. Tereza Hawkeye had picked up the instrument and struck a chord that rendered Riza immovable. Riza had admired quietly, seeing her mother's face mold and shape as she crooned the very emotion her song was trying to convey.

Little did Riza know then that the remembrance would guide her to where she was, framing her into the artist she had become.

Roy spoke his next line and twirled around. His eyes found hers, unintentionally. They locked gazes, and he seemed to have been startled for a brief second. Riza felt her toes curling inside her flats, a little part of her suddenly terrified that she might have broken his concentration and torn apart his next line. But Roy masterfully amended his focus and shifted it all back into the play. Nothing was amiss.

The next thing Riza knew she had seated herself in a folding chair nearby, her soles perching on the marley floor. Once more and without fail, Roy's delivery pulled her in and steered her gaze to follow in his direction. Admittedly, she thought she could just stare at him forever, relishing in the way he shone under the dome of the French Quarter.

Another hour passed, though it felt like mere minutes. The final scene began as quickly as it ended. The cast members who had gathered in front of the audience took each other's hands and formed a long chain, heads bowing deeply in gratitude. Riza sprang up and smoothed her black pencil skirt before raining the actors with her own standing ovation. Roy and the leading lady stood center-stage, waving to the cheering spectators as the supporting actors and actresses ran backstage, sweeping past her into the dressing room.

With one last wave to the crowd, Roy spun towards her and swiftly approached.

"Roy! That was amazing!" Riza exclaimed. "You were great and-" She paused, the air in her lungs trapped when he closed their gap faster than she could anticipate.

Without warning, Roy slid his arms around her waist and drew her against him. A fraction of a second later, he lifted her up and whirled the both of them in place, a celebratory grin permanent on his face. She didn't know what to think, but it would be a lie to say that she didn't enjoy the way his firm hands rested along her curves.

The light piano arrangement that sang in the background drifted into a romantic composition. In its crest, the setting of Elysian Fields miraculously glittered in her periphery, planting one too many stars on its canvas. A set of rich-hazel and deep-dark eyes met and settled just a minute too long, soaring into a waltz that spoke of a lingering promise from that night at the record store.

In the unspoken intimacy, Riza placed her hands on each length of his sleeves, delicate fingers trailing up his shoulders to wrap gently around his neck. Roy tightened his grip around her waist as though their scant distance was implacable, and his lips leaned closer and closer, until...

The music descended from its high, softening ever so slowly, calling Riza into cue. The tip of his nose brushed hers, his hot breath mingling with her own. The pulse on her neck surged and crashed against her skin. Instinctively, Riza closed her eyes and reciprocated his affection, melding their mouths together. Finally, everything felt complete - hope and longing intertwined, wonder and consternation abound.

When they separated, Riza's fingers strayed to his face and pushed aside the black fringe that began to fall over his eyes. Her cheeks dusted pink from the heat of their kiss, Riza whispered, "Sorry I'm late."

Roy still hadn't let go of his hold on her, steadfast and tender. "Thank you for coming. I'm glad you could make it," he smiled, his adoring gaze never leaving hers.

Breathless, she replied, "I'm glad I could make it, too. I wouldn't have-" But the rest of her sentence vaporized for the second time that night the instant Roy stumbled in for another kiss. It reeled her mind and sensibility elsewhere, and her eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering her vision to a city full of stars, where the sky was endlessly shining over two ardent dreamers.


	5. here's to the ones who dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Life and Anime Expo happened. On another note, this chapter prompted a silly argument with my husband. He claimed that "the length" of a Subway sandwich is a footlong, whereas I insisted it's usually 6". He won after confirming with 2 ex-Subway employees and I ended up changing some stuff here, whatever. lol

**October 2014**

"Riza."

Smacking the rouge on her lips, Riza studied her dolled up appearance in the mirror. Mascaraed lashes sharpened her hazel eyes, sitting above pink-tinted cheeks that rounded a smooth complexion. When the doorbell screeched once more, demanding attention, Riza flicked a glance to her left. She studied her friend gingerly, seeing another layer of perseverance peeled from Rebecca's powdery face.

"Riza!" her friend snapped. "Get the door!"

"Okay, sorry. I'm almost done." She turned to Rebecca, uncertainty coloring her tone, "There's so much  _red_  on my face. Becs, Do I look like a clown?"

Rebecca skimmed a glimpse, smiling. "No, you look very pretty."

Another buzz.

And another, and another.

"Gah! Your boyfriend is so obnoxious!" Rebecca growled. "If I knew he'd pull this stupid shit, I wouldn't have let you go out with him!"

Riza rolled on an appeasing smile, "He's just excited to see his friend getting engaged."

"No, not true. He does this Every. Single. Time he comes to pick you up." Rebecca grumbled, "I'm going to strangle loverboy, I swear! Or I can just chop off his fucking fingers..."

"Don't worry, I'm done. I'll whisk him away so you won't have to do any of that. I'll see you at the party? Jean picking you up?"

"Yeap. See ya there."

As Riza raced down the hallway, she made a pit stop in her bedroom, snatching her evening purse, ruby low-heels, and tonight's speech packaged on an index card. She surveyed the tidy space for any forgotten article. A knitted sweater for an autumn night on a rooftop venue. Check. A hair ribbon. Check. Her Gibson-

The doorbell called again.

"Coming!"

She tore open the door to find Roy Mustang looming over the entrance, a finger teasing over the buzzer. When Roy saw her, his stance relaxed and a silly grin played on his lips, curling into a devilish smirk that never failed to render her breathless.

"Hello Miss Hawkeye," he said. "You look beautiful. As always."

Roy's silk-burgundy bow tie stole her vision, and the crisp, white dress shirt beneath a black dinner suit managed to curve an appreciative smile on her face. The dark elements of his features only coated a mystery, and when the clock chimed midnight tonight, Riza knew she would rush to the exit. She'd unwrap her present in the quiet of his one-bedroom apartment, ripping the bothersome ribbon and silky giftwraps in hasty motions.

Promptly, she silenced her ill-timed thoughts and returned the compliment, "You don't look so bad yourself, Mister Mustang."

The theme of their friend's engagement party was 'Something Old, Something New, and Something Red', which, Maes had explained, symbolized love, passion, and excitement, much like his fiery sentiment for Riza's ex-roommate Gracia Atwell. Riza could vividly imagine the red rose-petals strewn over red tablecloths, guests splashed in something-red with a glass of red wine in each of their hands.

"Why thank you, milady," Roy smiled and offered an arm, "Ready to go?"

"You brought my guitar?"

"Of course. It's in the back seat."

"Then yes, I'm ready," she replied, looping her hand around. "Oh and before I forget, please don't taunt Rebecca with your bell-ringing ever again. She  _will_  kill you the next time around."

He twirled the car key in his hand. "No matter what I do, that harpy will never be happy. I might as well annoy her as much as I can."

She shot him her sharpest glare yet. "Roy, don't call her that…"

"Okay, she's not a harpy. Just a… hellcat from the hottest pit of-"

"Roy!"

"Alright. Sorry. I was just kidding." He turned to her, solemnly. "But honestly though, compared to you, Rebecca Catalina is like a demon from the nine circles of hell-"

"And Jean Havoc's arms are bigger than yours," Riza retorted.

"They are-" Her sudden declaration wiped out his cheeky countenance. A set of dark eyes grew so large they gurgled a laughter in her belly. "Wait, what did you say?!"

"Jean's arms are bigger than yours. Oh and he has really,  _really_  bright, blue eyes."

"Riza, do you have the hots for Jean or something?" The mirth on her lips betrayed all accounts of sobriety, but it didn't stop Roy from spilling his thoughts. "Because, you know, if you prefer that chimney-smoking man then I can order someone to kidnap him, smuggle him into North Korea, where his big badass arms and bright blue eyes and thick American accent will probably get him killed."

Riza play-gasped. "Oh my! Roy Mustang, are you jealous?"

"I am not," his gaze wheeled down and to the side, away from hers, "I am simply… speaking my mind."

"Are you sure? Because Jean's also taller than you by like six inches. That's a lot. That's the length of a half Subway sandwich."

"We're only three inches apart! His little tuft thing adds like an extra three."

"Are you absolutely sure, Roy? I could have sworn he's a full head taller than you."

"Of course I am," Roy smirked. Then he leaned a hairbreadth away from her pearl-adorned ear, whispering seductively, "The better question is: do you know  _what else_  is the length of a half Subway sandwich?"

She took a step back and caught the mischief in his wink. Innocently, she answered, an index finger tapping on her chin, "Hmm. Let's see. Is it... Jean Havoc's peni-"

His mouth twisted with a rebuttal, Riza could see, but she effectively untangled it with an impulsive kiss, warm and delicate. The stiffness of his jaw slackened at the heat, and she raised both of her arms to coil around his neck. When she reluctantly pried their lips apart, she gandered a small smile and said, "I'm just kidding, Roy. You know that, right?"

"I don't know, Riza. I'm hurt." Roy pouted with the theatrics, drawing her closer by the waist, "I think I need another kiss to feel better."

She pecked his cheek and pulled back again.

Roy frowned, "That's it?"

She straightened the imaginary slant of his bow tie and dawdled her fingers there. She eyed his upturned mouth, unable to face him for fear of giving in. "The maid of honor and best man shouldn't be late to the party..."

But when a pair of eager eyes prowled her painted lips and finally pounced on its target, her vacillation crumbled. It was soft. It was greedy. It was perfect, and Riza found it difficult to let go. Riza returned his kiss with matching vigor, allowing herself just one more minute in paradise.

* * *

 

The call Roy never received from his talent agent had been worrying. It offered only two possibilities, and most often than not it meant another rejection via text, complete with lines of practiced apology that held little to no meaning to him anymore.

It had only been a half-hour since he last checked his phone, but the itch on his fingers was implacable. He knew the smart thing to do was to end all suspense by contacting his agent. Admittedly, however, he'd continue to practice self-restraint if it meant ending the night on a high note. Besides, with the most beautiful woman under the spotlight, Roy was finding it difficult to  _want_  to worry more than he already was.

"This is a cover of  _We've Only Just Begun_ ," Riza announced from the stage, her steady voice eroding through every ounce of his concern, luring the rest of his focus. She took a careful seat on the high stool, her guitar slung over her shoulder. Endearingly, she chuckled, "Maes, this is my dear Gracia's favorite song. It would be good for you to remember."

An accompanying laughter from the crowd, interrupted by the future groom's enthusiastic cheering from the dance floor, and Riza signaled to the band behind her and cleared her throat. She began to sing.

It hadn't been his first time hearing her sing; Roy had watched her hum and vocalize parts of her lyrics in the comfort of his apartment, completely taken by her finesse and palpable intensity. She hadn't realized he had been there, admiring and observing from the sidelines. At the end of her songwriting, he had requested a private performance, which was returned with a sheepish smile and a silent nod.

Rising from his chair, Roy approached the stage. He weaved through the slow dancers, couples lost in their partner's arms, and brought himself forward until he was mere feet from the bottom of the platform. He watched Riza shine under the luster of blue and yellow lights, and he beamed at his girlfriend, proud and sentimental. She captured his expression at once and smiled, fondly.

In that moment, he felt as though every verse she quivered was meant just for him. All of the white lace and promises, shared horizons and their lives ahead of them.

The keyboard carried the last tune to The Carpenters' classic, and Riza thanked her applauding audience and gracefully descended the spotlight. With glee on her expression, Riza lay her guitar against the side of the stage and promptly flew into his arms.

Another ballad followed, and Roy proffered his hand for a dance. She removed their distance and took it graciously.

"That was beautiful," Roy whispered, pulling her close. "I'm not so sure Maes can compete with that."

"I don't know, Roy. Gracia seems to love everything about Maes, all of his amusing antics and obsessive photo-taking," Riza laughed, her hands drifting up his sleeves.

"I give it a year before she tells him to stop with the photo-taking," he quipped.

Rows of string lights perched above his head, glowing ever brighter than Hollywood Hills' own starry sky. The upbeat selections had ebbed since the peak of the party, marked by cake cutting and champagne toasting to the happy couple. Ballads and doo wops now crowned the stage, softening the celebration beneath the tide of the moon. Against his chest, Roy could hear Riza releasing a contented sigh, swaying lazy feet to the last few measures of  _How Deep is Your Love_.

The sleeveless, knee-length dress Riza wore couldn't have made him a happier man. The delicate satin seemed to conform to the way his hands hugged her slender curves, and its dark shade only dramatized the light sheen in her eyes. Occasionally, the cold autumn wind dotted her skin, but each time Roy would take it as an invitation to tuck her in for warmth.

Her scent of jasmine grew stronger as he puffed in air through his nose, his heart finding solace in its trail. The phone in his pocket stayed idle, heavy and quiet, and he closed his eyes to forget. The pluck of guitar filled the moment, and a slow rendition of The Beatles' _In My Life_  reigned over the dancing couples. He drew her even closer by the waist and pressed his cheek against the silk of her hair.

"Roy, are you alright?" Riza breathed.

He mumbled, "Mmhmm." Though he was certain she could sense every trace of his doubt.

One of her hands rose to the back of his neck and drew slow, comforting circles. "I know you're still thinking about that audition... They still haven't called you?"

"Nope."

"It's been a while, but have a little faith."

He pulled away to meet her eyes. "It's been three weeks, Riza."

"Well, they could still be on the last leg of that audition. Besides, it's Saturday night. Talent agents have a life too, you know," she teased. He chuckled lightly, and she added, "Roy, you're a fine actor, I know you'll eventually get there. And, I'm here for you, and I support you every step of the way. I just thought you should know that."

Riza had taken every word out of his mouth. All he had left was a strong pair of arms that spoke more volume than his own voice. He wrapped them around her arching back and rested his head in the curve of her neck. When Riza nuzzled her forehead on his shoulder and slipped her cold hands underneath the warmth of his suit, tightening her grip, Roy knew she understood the meaning of his embrace. Peculiarly, her constant presence calmed him just as much as it jolted his body with a flash of dread, and Roy thought to himself:

_Would Riza become just another unfulfilled dream?_

"Should we sit down?" she asked softly.

Silently, he nodded.

Rebecca, Jean, Gracia, and a beaming Maes were rounding the head table, filling the circle with amiable chatter. Roy pulled out the empty seat beside Rebecca, dusting the cushion with his hand before motioning to Riza to sit. Riza rolled her eyes, but not without the ghost of a smile rolling past her lips. Roy took the chair next to her, noting how Rebecca stuck her tongue out at his extravagant gesture.

Red wine in her hand, Gracia swirled the glass before looking up at him. "So Roy, what have you been doing now that the summer camp is over?"

Roy could feel everyone's watch on him when he answered. "I bartend at my aunt's on the weekdays. And between turning up for auditions and bugging my agent nonstop-" the table chuckled, and he glanced at Riza, who met his eyes in the same instance, "I spend them with Riza."

Feeling Riza's hand slip into his under the table, he squeezed it with affection. He looked at everyone once again. "The last audition I had was for a pilot show. And surprisingly, they didn't stop me at two sentences."

"Oooh! Finally!" Rebecca squealed with enthusiasm. She was always one most curious about the trajectory of his career, Roy realized. And whether it was out of genuine interest or to ensure her best friend didn't become a victim to his vocational woes, Roy wasn't entirely sure.

"What kind of show?" Jean asked.

A single brow lifted, and Roy snorted, "I'm surprised Maes hasn't told you guys." With his thumb pointing to his best friend, Roy laughed, "This guy usually spills everything when it comes to my career and the women in my life."

"Lack of women," Maes corrected with a grin.

Gracia nudged him gently, murmuring, "Well, he's not lacking anymore, darling. He has Riza."

"I wanna hear all about this show," Rebecca hedged, impatience dripping from her voice. "Which channel? CBS? NBC?  _Disney_?"

"It's a show on Syfy," Roy shrugged.

Rebecca lingered an irritable stare, "And?"

"It's a miniseries about the military, their power and struggle, set in a fictional universe. They pitched it as an alternate dimension World War II story, but it sounds to me like it's got more drama than battle scenes."

"Syfy though?" Jean chimed in, uncertainty in his tone. "You'd be lucky if you even have a hundred viewers. Everyone knows Syfy as the channel for all low-budget, terrible sci-fi flicks."

"Yeah, you won't get famous that way," Rebecca lectured, as though she had been well-versed in the entertainment industry. "It's important to be known in the industry."

"Well, first of all," Roy began, sounding more defensive than he'd like to be, "fame was never my priority when I decided to be an actor."

"Then why did you decide to become an actor?" Rebecca argued.

"There's more to being an actor than just chasing fame, Becca," Riza interjected calmly.

"Riza's right," Roy smiled gratefully at his girlfriend before turning back to face the inquisitive group. "I'd be happy if only one person watches the show. At the end of the day, if I could get an emotion out of that person - be it  _anger-"_  he smirked at Rebecca, who promptly crossed her arms and huffed in disdain, "or laughter - I'd consider it a job well done."

Roy took the group's watchful silence as a sign to continue, "Anyway, I see fame as a bonus. It's great if people recognize your work and, you know, tweet and have articles written about you."

"And I can attest to Roy-boy's ambition there, because I grew up with this guy, and he was always going on and on about how he can't wait to make me cry in the movies," Maes chuckled.

The table roared with laughter.

"Hah well," Rebecca simpered, "and I always thought most actors your age are a bunch of shallow men who spend way too much time at the gym."

Crossing his arms, Jean joined in with a tease, "Oh, Roy definitely spends too much time at the gym. It doesn't mean he could get a set of arms as big as mine though." The blond winked at Rebecca, who reciprocated it with a playful slap on his shoulder.

"I have to say," Roy said, "that the most frustrating part is landing a role. It's easier to secure one if you're famous, like Rebecca said. But for someone who's barely trying to get their foot in the door, like me, knowing the right people is definitely important."

He turned to Riza, curling his fingers into hers and bringing it up to kiss the back of her hand. "And while I wait until that day comes, I was thinking about getting a second job so I can take this lovely woman right here to a Paul McCartney concert next June in Philly."

"Paul McCartney?" Riza stared at him with raised eyebrows, suspending a parted mouth. "You were able to get tickets?"

Roy grinned. "Yup. I just need to book our flights and hotel, but we still have some time." Her feet were restless, and he was so sure she would bolt upright and jump onto him if it hadn't been for the formal setting. Instead, he marveled at the way her eyes lit up and how her face bloomed with delight.

"How would you know if you two will still be together then?" Jean teased.

But Roy was forced to stifle his comeback when Rebecca interrupted, smoothly, "Don't you worry about finances, Roy. Riza's dad is loaded. Just tell him nicely where you're taking his daughter and I'm sure he'll cover all expenses."

Beside Riza, Gracia nodded in agreement, sipping on her wine.

"Oh I didn't know," Roy said in astonishment, stealing a peek at his girlfriend only to be met by a curious profile. Something about her expression had shifted, significantly. He looked back at Rebecca and stated with hesitance, "We haven't been introduced…."

The group turned to Riza, who stood up abruptly and kept her gaze locked on the rustic centerpiece. She pointed to the empty wine bottle in front of her, and without a single glance at Roy, she declared, "I'm gonna get another glass."

* * *

 

The last time Berthold Hawkeye set foot in the gym was close to thirty years ago. He had been in his mid-twenties then, interning at one of the most prestigious law firms in Los Angeles. He had cared more about the intricacies of his work than the prospects of chasing girls. He had excelled at memorizing the upper management's beverage preferences atop constitutional and criminal laws, and he most certainly went above and beyond completing the most mundane tasks assigned to him. Berthold had finished his internship with full recommendations from each and every one of his supervisors, which brought his next adventure to the beautiful coast city of San Francisco.

It was not until his move up north for a full-time job that would skyrocket his career in the entertainment industry that he began to worry about looking good. There, he met Tereza Grumman, a local singer-songwriter who would turn his drab and grey universe into one splashed with every color of the rainbow. She had been performing in one of the coffee shops he frequented, trilling an acoustic rendition of Tony Bennett's  _I Left My Heart in San Francisco_.

The cave of his mouth had run drier than the sahara then, and true to the lyrics, Tereza had stolen every ounce of his breath and had gripped a tight rein around his heart. By the end of the song, Berthold knew that if he didn't kindle the flame, he would carry a world of regret for the rest of his life.

That was when his fixation with working out had started. Physically, he had always been taller than the average men, hauling a thin and graceful figure that made him seem weaker than he actually was. But with a steely resolve and a few consistent days out of the week, Berthold eventually sported more visible strength on his upper body and gained a few appreciative double-takes from the women at his apartment complex. Though this routine had waned through the years, the thought of reconciling with his second wife brimmed him up with renewed determination.

"Hey.  _Hey!_ "

When Berthold cranked his neck, he saw Roy snapping his fingers, attempting to break his daze.

"I asked you how many sets you've done," Roy said with a hint of annoyance.

"Uh, I think that was my last one," Berthold replied, putting his fifteen-pounders back on the rack. The weight was half of Roy's, but at the end of his set, it felt as though they were just as heavy. "Five sets of ten. I only did nine on the last one."

Berthold glued his gaze to the matted floor as he plopped himself down onto the workout bench behind him. He didn't dare look at Roy, afraid the younger man would assign another set of bicep curls. His muscles burned as it were, and Berthold padded his knees with his palms, rubbing circles to exaggerate his exhaustion.

Roy was mute, however, and cautiously, Berthold peered up to study his expression.

There was nothing on Roy's face that suggested a demanding mien. In fact, Roy had a crooked grin that tempered a set of faraway eyes. The boy seemed preoccupied, Berthold thought, and his smile more silly each time they met.

"You've been staring into space a lot recently," Berthold remarked.

Roy looked down at him on the bench, surprise etched on his face. "So have you," the younger man countered defensively. "I can see you getting distracted every now and then."

"Now that I'm not actively working on a case, I'm constantly thinking of ways my team could be making mistakes," Berthold answered with all the poise he could muster. Sluggishly, he started to make his way to the sauna, as they would at the end of each workout, limping across the gym.

"That's the same thing as working," Roy said, following a step behind. "What you should be thinking about is  _how_  to win your wife back."

"Look," Berthold placated, turning to face Roy, "I know you've been the one with all the advice about women and relationships, but I didn't get to this age without some experience on my own, as little as they may be. You can tell me what you're thinking about."

Roy seemed to take his offer into consideration, his lips snared in between his teeth. They entered the empty sauna and carefully climbed the highest bench. Roy leaned against the shiplap wall, and upon the release of his breath, the mouth that would normally sneer at Berthold now wore a small smile.

"Okay, so I don't normally tell people this kind of thing," Roy began, shuffling his rear against the sweltering planks. "And frankly, I feel kinda stupid admitting this to you, especially with all my advice about women and stuff-" Then the boy chuckled, all giddy and a little ridiculous, "I think I'm in love, Berthold."

"Oh really? No more whoring around for you? That's a surprise," Berthold chaffed. "What makes her different than the other women?"

Roy lifted his smile to the ceiling and chortled, a dreamy quality to his countenance. He sighed, "She's beautiful, Berthold. My type from head to toe. But what got me is her personality. I swear I don't know anyone as passionate and dedicated and kind and interesting as her."

"Good. That's very good. It's about time someone put a leash around you, because you are every father's worst nightmare," Berthold cackled. While he meant every word, he also knew he held a peculiar fondness for the boy. After all, Berthold had confided, sought advice, and kept his company, even if he disagreed with every bit of Roy's philandering habits.

"I don't think I've ever asked you this, but when did you realize you were in love with your wife?" Roy asked.

He thought of Tereza in an instant. But Berthold realized that the second time around he fell in love, with the gentle Eva who was characteristically worlds apart from his first wife, it fluttered his heart and filled his stomach with butterfly wings just the same. He missed Eva - her laughter, her tenderness, her cooking - head to toe, body and soul.

"I was working on a large case at the time, crunching between twelve to sixteen-hour days for a good couple of months. My wife - girlfriend, at the time - was a chef, so every time we pulled an all nighter at my house, she would make sure we all had a proper dinner. I was never one to take breaks, and when my team would eat, I would just continue working," Berthold reminisced, a rueful smile tugging on his lips.

"After everyone had left, she berated me for not taking better care of myself and threatened to spoon-feed me if I didn't take a bite to eat with everyone else. If she hadn't reminded me over and over, I'd probably be dead by now, especially at the rate I was working. I don't remember exactly when it happened, but a couple spoon-feeding later, I knew I wanted to marry her."

"Oh shit, she actually spoon-fed you?" Roy chuckled. "And how the heck did you end up with someone like her? Clearly you're getting the better end of the deal."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

"Is she still… you know, trying to get you to sign those papers?"

"Yeah…" Berthold groaned. "In fact, I've been ignoring her calls because of it."

"Well you gotta talk to her eventually," Roy shrugged. "But hey, you can tell her you've been taking better care of yourself. You also got rid of that horrendous long hair, and you've been working out for a few weeks now. Plus, you've  _successfully_  worked your charm on a few women. Try it out on her."

"I don't know. My wife is very different from all of those women. I realize it takes more than charm to win her back." Berthold stood up, languidly, taking one careful step at a time as he descended the wooden benches. The heat and the thought of Eva leaving him were becoming unbearable.

Roy trailed behind him, snatching an extra towel on his way out. "Okay, so just talk to her then."

"And what if she brings up the divorce paper? What do I do then?" Berthold hissed, hobbling a sore leg towards the locker room. "I'm not ready to talk about that."

"You just need to man up, Bertie. And it probably wouldn't hurt to show some emotions. Don't give her that stoic face you give me. Chicks don't dig that. Hell, I don't dig that. Tell her you love her and that you want her back."

Reaching his locker, Berthold bent his knee and whisked the knob haphazardly, only to mess up the combinations with a careless turn. Frustrated, he turned to Roy, who was grabbing a change of clothes from his duffle bag. "Well then let me ask you this: did you already tell your girl that you love her?"

Roy narrowed him a disagreeable look. "No. And why does it matter if I did or didn't?"

"Why didn't you?" Berthold snapped back. "It's because it's not so easy, is it?"

"It's not that. I'm just waiting for the right moment," Roy replied calmly. "Berthold, she's  _your_  wife. Why is it so hard to tell her that you love her? I really hope you've said it to her at least once in your life."

When Berthold didn't say anything, Roy appraised him with a set of incredulous eyes, big and round. "Wow. You are terrible."

His shoulders sagged in resignation, and Berthold confessed, "I don't exactly express my feelings very well with words."

"Then show it to her. Buy her flowers, hold her hand, kiss her," Roy supplied. Then something flickered on his face - a realization, and he prodded Berthold, "From what I've gathered about your wife, she sounds like a kind and reasonable woman. Are you absolutely certain that she is sleeping with her boss? Because if she isn't, then we're going about this all wrong."

"She talks about him all the time, showering him admiration and all that bullshit. Then one night, she packed her bag and left  _his_  phone number on the dining table. What else could that mean? She's obviously staying there!"

"Maybe that's what it is. Maybe she's just staying there because there's nowhere else to go. Have you thought of  _that_  possibility?"

"Well, it's possible, I suppose. But she could also stay with my daughter. Why didn't she do that instead?"

"I don't know, man. You should just talk to her and clear this mess up. That's the best advice I can give you. I don't know how your wife puts up with you, not hearing a single 'I love you' after all this time. Sometimes I don't know why I put up with you either, to be honest."

"Why  _do_  you put up with me? Did you want something from me?" Berthold charged.

At this, Roy paused, seemingly caught off guard. But when his cell phone rang from inside his duffle bag, he immediately stuck a hand in and scrambled for the device, forgetting about Berthold altogether.

Berthold remained stock-still, scowling from where he stood, firm hands on his hips. He was hardly listening to the one-sided conversation that took place in front of him, choosing to glare at the younger man instead. But upon seeing a glimmer of excitement on Roy's face, Berthold eased up and began to wonder just what was happening-

Suddenly, Roy laughed like a madman. He exclaimed, "Oh fucking fuck yeeeeeeees!" Both of his fists were clenched in exhilaration, and ecstatically, he raised his arms to the sky.

"What happened?"

"They chose me! One of the producers happened to watch the play and he loved it!"

"Play? Are you an actor?" Berthold asked in amusement.

Roy punched the air with uncontrolled delight, grunting and nodding, making a fool out of himself. He ran his fingers through his damp hair and confronted the ceiling, praising the heavens above. Grabbing Berthold by the arms, Roy shook him vigorously, his voice screeching with joy, "I got that damn role! Yes! And I can't wait to tell Riza!"

The name struck him, and Berthold tilted his head to the side, "Riza?"


	6. chasing all the lights that shine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh hey look, I finished it in about a week! :D I hope you enjoy.

Roy Mustang couldn't help himself but steal the occasional glances at his girlfriend, a coiling arm pulling her tighter by the waist. The gesture was meant to be comforting. Her steady eyes remained forward, braving whatever awaited tonight, but Roy knew her mind must have been a jumble of emotions.

"Hey, you alright? Nervous?" he asked.

Without a word, she looked up at him and smiled diffidently.

The neon sign above the entrance of the bar splashed a warm red on the pavement, and the faint sound of drum shuffles from within the bar welcomed them to 'The Christmas Tavern'. Riza took one courageous step into the dim establishment and Roy followed, a guiding hand on the small of her back.

He wondered what she must be thinking at this moment. He knew very well that Riza was always open to exploring new places, especially ones brimmed with live music performed by LA's local bands. On the other hand, the idea of meeting his aunt must have been unnerving. He would be nervous, too, if he was meeting her father.

Suddenly, Riza stopped and hauled in a deep breath. Turning to face him, she spat out her thoughts at the speed of light, "Okay, so I read this newspaper article that we're not supposed to meet each other's parents until like our fourth or fifth month of dating. But that's okay because I trust you. Yeah. Also, your aunt's name is  _Christine_... right? Not Christina. And you said she used to play the piano, and that she spent a good amount of time living in China before returning-" she breathed in and out, hyperventilating, "I can talk about that, yeah. I can talk to her about the piano and... China, even though I've only seen pictures of China in a book- What kind of questions do you think she'll ask?"

Roy looked down into her, rubbing soothing palms along her sleeves. "Relax. My aunt isn't the meddling kind. Plus, she's working tonight. She might not even be able to talk to you all that much."

"Right… And I'm starting to regret my decision asking you to choose."

A celebration was in order, Riza had exclaimed upon learning of Roy's new starring role. She had clapped ecstatically and, with eyes wide and bright, latched onto him, attacking his cheeks, nose, and mouth with tiny, ferocious kisses. He could have sworn she was more excited than he was. And he supposed this was to be expected, considering how many rejection calls he had received over the course of the three months they had been dating.

Riza had asked him to pick a place - to drink or to dine, and in a heartbeat, he chose his aunt's bar. Not because money was tight, but because he couldn't wait to introduce his girlfriend to the woman who raised him.

"So I haven't told you, but my sisters insisted that I invite them tonight. My aunt won't pry, but they might. And they can be kinda crazy..."

The rest of her body stiffened, and she moulded a bewildered look on her face. "And you're just telling me this now?!"

With a light chuckle, Roy placed reassuring hands on her shoulders, squeezing them firmly. A musician took the stage, and Roy had to raise his voice against a train of loud drumming. "Your best bet is to stay with me at all times so I can ward them off for you!"

Riza laughed nervously, pressing taut fingers to the small clutch in her hand. Roy could see the white curves behind her fingernails as she did so. But she moved onward through a crowd of the half-full bar and kept her pace beside him. Tiptoeing into his ear, she suppressed a laugh, "Maybe I should have brought Rebecca with me, that way she can distract your sisters and Aunt Chris for me."

"You'll be fine. They will love you as much as I love you."

Her steps froze at once. Soon, her expression twisted, wedged between startled and frightened, and the cave of her mouth opened. She was mute, however, as though he had given her a good scare and the fear stayed and prevented her from speaking. At that moment, Roy realized the gravity of his words. He sensed panic rising, clamoring in his chest, and his throat amassed a pebble so large it left him speechless just the same.

He wanted to look everywhere else but at her, but Riza seemed to snare his focus and whipped it into place. Without a second thought, he blurted, "I mean, uh, surprise…?" Immediately, he squeezed his eyes shut and wished so badly to put a fist in his mouth. He needed to stop himself from sounding even more foolish.

She started chuckling, quietly at first, until it shimmered into an endearing laughter. There was no ridicule nor menace in her amusement. Gradually, the sound eased his anxious heart and dampened the tumult in his ears. "Um... I love you..." Roy said it again, testing the waters.

Riza responded with a broad smile and a playful poke on the tip of his nose. " _You_  are such a dork!" she near-screamed, taking his clammy hands into each of hers. Gently, she brought them around her back and rested them above her hips. Then she looped her arms around his neck, reaching for his lips and taking it into a hasty but meaningful kiss. "I love you, too, Roy. Though I didn't really expect to say it here at your aunt's bar, with strangers all around us."

"Oh? I can say it again when we get home tonight," he grinned, clasping the fingers wrapped around the small of her back.

"Oh my God! You finally showed up!"

They both turned around and came face-to-face with a petite woman.

"Riza, right?" she beamed, her grey eyes gleaming from edge to edge, wavy, blonde hair cascading down past her collarbone where a tight, long-sleeved purple dress squeezed her ample bosom.

"Um, yes?"

Abruptly, she pulled Riza into a hug, "I'm Vanessa! Roy's sister!"

"Oh," Riza simply said, seemingly confused. Then with a realization on her face, Riza went at her again, with a goofy smile that softened the apprehension in Roy's gaze, " _Oh_. You're Vanessa! Yes, Roy has told me so much about you!"

"Ha! Only good things, I hope," Vanessa laughed. "Come over to the bar. Aunt Chris has been waiting to meet you all night!"

At this, Roy searched Riza's face for a sign of discomfort. In relief, he only found a relaxed countenance, belying the agitation she voiced only moments before.

They made their way to the bar, where his aunt was serving a mound of patrons behind the counter. The woman's black tresses were pulled back into a low ponytail, the waves spilling down handsomely over a broad shoulder. Her large, round face was heavily painted, hiding creases of maturity beneath a dash of healthy pink and lines of shadowy black. Yet, in spite of her age, Aunt Chris moved with an air of elegance that would warrant her a second glance from onlookers.

Vanessa propped herself up on one of the empty stools and brought Riza forward, a guiding hand on her shoulder. "Aunt Chris, Riza is here!"

"Riza?" the woman's gruff voice was thick with curiosity. She extended her hand to shake Riza's, an oddly delightful smile playing on her ruby lips, "Is that short for something, dear?"

Taking Aunt Chris's hand, Riza replied, "It's short for Elizabeth."

Roy wasn't sure why the exchange brought about a recollection from last week's gym session. It was unlike Berthold to poke into Roy's personal life. In the short few months Roy had known him, their subject of discussion had always been about his wife, and occasionally, his daughter and career. Just like Aunt Chris, however, Berthold had asked the same question. Too caught up in his own moment, Roy had shrugged, inadvertently disregarding his inquiry. Berthold hadn't pushed, and instead circled back to his favorite topic: his wife.

To his left, Vanessa began her interrogation with an officious air, a sly smile pouncing on her target. Roy had to fight the unpleasant grimace that threatened to surface. "So Riza. What do you do? Where do you live? Oh wait, don't tell me you live with Roy-boy here?" Vanessa laughed, a playful slap on Riza's arm. His sister treated his girlfriend as though they were old friends.

Calmly, Riza answered, "No, I live with my roommate Rebecca near Silver Lake. I work at a coffee shop, but I love composing music and playing my guitar."

Resting her hand atop Riza's, Vanessa chirped, "You're a musician? No way! Is it hard playing the guitar?"

Roy heard a shout of his name, and he turned around to see his older sister approaching. Tonight, Madeline was less flashy in her white tank top underneath a matching color blazer. Her skinny jeans were tucked inside high leather boots, which clipped excitedly across the linoleum floor as she eyed Riza, who sat with all of her composure still intact beside Vanessa.

Madeline tapped Riza on the arm, screeching, "Oh my God! Roy-boy finally brought you around!"

"Here's a drink for you, Riza," Aunt Chris smiled, sliding a short glass full of ice drowned in clear, fizzy liquid with mint leaf to garnish. Politely, Riza thanked her, and the woman fashioned another drink skillfully and pushed a tumblr filled with a golden concoction towards Roy. "This one's yours, Roy-boy."

Turning to face him, Riza laughed, quipping, "Everyone here calls you Roy-boy. I think I'm gonna start calling you that, too."

His face blanched. "Oh hell no. Please don't."

Madeline interposed in between their conversation, "You know, Reez- Can I call you Reez?" Riza nodded. "You have to pardon our excitement here. Roy never really brought the girls he'd dated to meet us."

Vanessa joined in, "Yeah! And whenever we asked about them, he'd say no! We thought he might be lying about dating anyone at all."

"Yeah, and this is exactly why I said no," Roy grumbled.

Riza laughed. "Oh, so he's never talked about me then?"

"Oh no, it's different with you! He's always going on and on about you. Riza this, Riza that. I swear I feel like I've known you for so long." Then Vanessa threw a thumb back at Roy, sneering, "The bad thing about that is we've lost some female customers who come here just to ogle this guy. They'd make passes at him, and he'd just ignore them," she looked at Riza, "Oh and get this, he's been daydreaming  _a lot_. Would  _you_  have anything to do with that?"

A flash of embarrassment reeled in, and the temperature suddenly rose up, creating beads of perspiration along his hairline. He shot Vanessa a murderous glare, which she dismissed as she turned to Madeline and made his entire situation unbearably more humiliating. "Hey Maddie, what was that song he was singing the other day when we closed up shop?"

"Oh!" And Madeline began to sing and hum in an out-of-tune vocal, " _It's funny how we think of yesterday... Stuck in the something something, your movement and mine_. That one?"

Vanessa pointed her index finger out in confirmation and clapped eagerly. "Yes, that one!"

Behind the bar, Aunt Chris made a little, grating noise down her throat that beckoned his attention. There was a fascination about her face, the curve of her lips twitching imperceptibly. But before he could ask her what was  _so amusing_ , Riza swiveled in her seat, her stealthy fingers threading into his. She looked happy. "Roy, you were singing my song!"

With his free hand, he scratched the back of his head and cracked an awkward smile, "Ahh yeah, maybe…" When he saw his sisters snickering, clearly reveling in his predicament, he shot them a look that promised payba-

"Riza, why don't you take the stage and sing your song?" Aunt Chris interjected.

Fleetingly, her grip tightened around his fingers. She replied, hesitant, "I um… I'm not sure that's a good idea. I don't have my guitar, and-"

"Nonsense. We have plenty of musicians here," Aunt Chris said. She flicked a commanding finger towards the redhead working on the other side of the bar. "Mia! Can you find a guitar for Riza?"

Looking around the bar, Riza said, hesitant, "But it seems everyone has a full band playing with them… and I'm alone with a guitar…? And they all seem to know each other..."

"They all play here often, so yes they've all gotten to know each other over the years," Aunt Chris concurred. "Do you perform in front of an audience often?"

"A few times in the past, but mostly in front of friends and family."

"Well, performing live in front of strangers can be a life-changing experience." Aunt Chris winked, "And it'll be good practice when you make it big."

"But-"

One excuse after another tumbled out of her mouth, all swatted with a clever response. Aunt Chris made it seem so easy when Roy rarely won a simple argument against Riza. His aunt's tenacity was rock solid, and Roy had experienced it first hand for the first eighteen years of his life. Nevertheless, Roy jumped in in an attempt to save her, "Aunt Chris, we're here for my celebration and I want Riza to drink with me. She doesn't have to play if she doesn't want to."

Madeline swatted his arm, hard, and whined like a child, "Oh come on, Roy. We wanna hear her! Besides, you've been singing her song the whole time you were working last week. Don't you want to hear it from the songwriter herself?"

Without a word, Roy studied Riza's expression and floated his uncertain gaze about her. Eventually, she nodded her assent, and he smiled in return, though reluctant. It would have been a lie to say he wasn't thrilled to hear her perform tonight. But he was nervous for her just as she was about herself.

"Okay, one song," Riza finally said to the pair of expectant sisters. Both women raised their arms up in victory, high-fiving each other, and Aunt Chris gestured to Riza, pointing to the lone guitar case tucked beside the stage.

Reaching into his pocket, Roy slipped out his phone. He gripped it tightly, his thumb hovering over the record button. Tonight might have been about him, but it didn't mean he would pass up the chance to preserve such an important moment.

* * *

 

Riza Hawkeye wielded the acoustic guitar like a wooden shield, the instrument propped up, snug against her torso. She thought of an appropriate song for a night like tonight, a chilly Friday where fashionable patrons mingled and indulged to forget their workweek. The music had to be fast-paced, she surmised. Well, it could be slow and relaxing, too, she supposed. Or, she could just play a quick one and get it over with.

But tonight was about Roy, and she thought it would be fitting to present him what she had been working on for the past couple of weeks. After all, she had been writing a song about him. About  _them_. It was  _their_  tale, a stroke of serendipity that began with a crass impression and ended in romance. It was a tune composed as a pop-ballad. It was to be accompanied by the soft, laid-back beating of drums and the harmonious strings of a piano, similar to the ebb and flow of their relationship - blissful and intense, sprinkled with the aggravating dust of their dreams.

A tight flutter in her belly rippled through her limbs, leaving a slight tremor on her fingers in its wake. She didn't have a drummer to accompany her nor a pianist to croon her harmony, but her mind was set. She sighed, willing the provoking sensation to leave, only for her nose to grimace when it came back harder and harsher than before. In retaliation, she nursed a deep breath, tuning the strings of the unfamiliar guitar and plucked a handful of shy notes.

Briefly, she looked up from her instrument to confront the audience. No one seemed to pay her any attention. Then she found Roy, perching on a violet sofa in the center of the room, flanked by his two bright-eyed sisters. He stared at her with an encouraging smile, silently mouthing the affection he'd confessed just an hour before.

"This one's a work in progress... but I hope you enjoy."

Riza inhaled once more, and then she played.

The strum of her guitar was timid at first, as uncertain as when she began to learn it many years ago in her mother's room. It had been just the two of them, Riza's skinny fingers rested over cords of sturdy steel. The afternoon felt slow, as if time decided to bestow her an extra hour so she could tame the enormous creature sitting across her lap.

"Go on, Riza. Give it a strum," her mother had said. And she did, the pad of her thumb grazing the strings.

The sound she produced had been weak, lacking the confidence her mother's hand had possessed. "Try again, Riza. With more  _umph_!" The six-year old once again had done precisely as told, and Tereza had responded with unrestrained laughter when Riza poised a growl under her breath. The guitar had roared then, louder and surer. "One more time," her mother had chanted. "One more." And Riza did. Again, and again, and again.

Before long, she had made the beast sing, inciting glorious arias under the whims of her strokes.

Confidence finally pooled, and Riza charged at the strings with their story at the forefront of her mind. The first stanza spoke of her fear and excitement of discovering a relationship out of nothing, the unexpected comfort and consolation that came at the heat of his touch. The second set of verses narrated his steady presence and the constant whispers of encouragement. Never lose hope. Have faith. And the last revealed her own promise that, despite what the future may hold, he would never lose her friendship.

She wondered if Roy had picked up any of it at all.

In what felt like the slowest three minutes of her life, the song was complete. She swept a cursory glance from one corner of the room to the other. No one really seemed to heed her music, with the exception of a few solo patrons and a group of judging eyes crowding around the back sofa. Roy and his sisters sprang up and clapped enthusiastically, but the reception had been tepid all around. A weak clap here, a faint whistle there.

It was expected, Riza supposed. She was a new face with a foreign melody. In spite of it all, she was content when a glimpse of Roy revealed his proud smile, followed by a thunderous hand-cheering and finger-whistling.

Roy approached the stage and offered a hand to help her down. Clasping her hands in his and looking straight at her, he said, solemnly, "I think there's something wrong with my eyes, Riza."

Her mouth pursed in puzzlement, and Riza tilted her head, "Wha-?"

His boyish grin took over, "I can't take them off of  _you_."

From behind him, Vanessa swatted her brother squarely on the back of his head. "What are you in high school?"

"What? I meant what I said!" Roy challenged, confronting her. "And was that a new song, by the way? I've never heard it before."

Riza nodded, but Madeline came and countered with an insult of her own, riling him up, "Little brother, that was terrible. You obviously need a lesson or two about women-" she leaned into Riza, "Don't let him get too comfortable with you. He turns into a dork."

Roy waved her off, "Whatever. I'm gonna get us some drinks."

Amused, Riza laughed along with them while a small part of her wondered what it would be like to have been raised with siblings. Would they have bantered as Roy and his sisters would? Would they have gotten along at all? As a child, all she had was her father and mother. Now, with everything that had happened, it was only Eva.

"Hi, sorry to interrupt," a voice interjected.

Riza cranked her head to find a woman standing beside her, her hair pixie-short and black, her lips smeared with dark red. The beauty mark above her sharp cheekbone was prominent, even more so when contrasted against her pasty complexion. A round-bellied man took her left side, with his patchy, red locks perching on his equally round head. They both wore similar attire, the woman a plain, white shirt and the man a black tee, outlining what looked like a print of Taylor Swift's head in bright, green lines. The woman shifted in her stance, and Riza peered at her tight, faded jeans running down her length, gathered into a pair of black ankle, lace-up boots.

They reminded her of 90's grunge musicians. All they needed was an electric guitar and a pair of drumsticks.

"Hi," Riza smiled. Both sisters winked at the two, as if they were well acquainted, before sidestepping to the bar.

The woman stretched her hand out at Riza, "I'm Maria. And this is Heymans."

She shook both of their hands. "Nice to meet you, both. I'm Riza."

"We watched you play, and you were great! You sing very well, and that song- did you write that yourself?" Maria raised.

The man called Heymans nodded agreeably beside her. When Riza faced Maria once more, Heymans spoke, "We're musicians, too, and we liked what we hear. I'm on the keyboard, and Maria's on the drums. How about we play together sometime?"

Maria nudged him on the shoulder, "The hell, Heymans? You're gonna scare the poor girl being so straightforward like that."

Riza chuckled, "No, it's fine."

"See," Heymans boasted, throwing a smug smile in Maria's direction. "Riza, our little band here is actually short a singer. The bastard just up and left. And since you can play the guitar, that's even better for us! And I'm not sure if you're looking to perform in front of a live audience again, but we have a slot at The Echo next spring, and you know… we should jam together," he offered, hands raised in the air, plucking the strings of an imaginary guitar in what she figured was a mirror of her performance.

Roy returned in time, both hands balancing glasses of topped up beer. "I heard that," Roy said, passing one to her. "And you should do it, Riza. The Echo is a big venue. Could be good for you." He extended a hand to Heymans, then Maria, introducing himself and adding, "Riza's boyfriend-" as though the conspicuous slip of his arm around her waist hadn't been evident enough.

"It seems we also play similar kind of music, too," Heymans added.

Pointing at his shirt, Riza said with a teasing chuckle, "Nope. I don't play Taylor Swift."

"Ha! I like this girl," Heymans laughed. "Nah. I don't listen to her. I just think she's smokin' hot. We play folk-rock, alternative. Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, that kind of good shit."

Beside her, Roy slid out his arm, excusing himself, "Sorry, I'm going to take this call. I'll be back." He sauntered a few feet away, and Riza turned to the two musicians.

"So, what do you say Riza?" Maria pressed.

She had very little idea what would come out of this collaboration. This was the first time anyone had ever asked. But for as long as she remembered, music had always been the center of her universe. So what did she have to lose?  _Have faith_ , Roy would have said. She smiled at Maria and said yes without another breath.

Shortly, they exchanged numbers, then they spoke a good deal about their favorite artists before their brief conversation ended when Maria received a call from her girlfriend, telling her to come home. When they left, Vanessa and Madeline approached Riza, a set of mischievous eyes set on her.

"Did you just get asked to play with those guys?!" Vanessa screeched. "You did, didn't you?"

"They're very good! They've performed here a few times in the past. Their lead singer left though, and they haven't performed here since. It's too bad, really," Madeline supplied.

"What did you tell them?"

"Did you say yes?"

Both women hammered questions after questions, keeping her on her toes. The topic of music trickled away, and it drifted to a new line of interrogation concerning Roy and her. It was about how they met, wanting the full story in  _details_ , then it was about her family, and if she grew up in a house full of girls. Then the two started bickering, fighting over trivial matters of haute couture and their brother's excellent fashion sense.

Behind her, she could pick out Roy's phone conversation. A few words were clear, and some drowned by the noise from the bar.

" _Did you talk to your wife-? Right. Oh she did? That's great, man!"_  Roy said happily.  _"No, I'm out right now. Yeah, I'm free next week if you wanna get a drink-"_

"Maddie, come on. We agree it's Givenchy! Audrey Hepburn wore them!"

"No, I don't think so. It's gotta be Valentino. Riza, what do you think?"

She only had the slightest clue as to what they were talking about. "Huh? Oh sure, yeah..."

" _Remember the woman I told you about,"_  Roy spoke in a hushed tone, as though the next topic was a great, big secret. Amusingly, she could still hear him, though not as clearly.  _"I made an extra set of keys for her the other day. Yeah, I think I'm ready- She told me she loves me, too-"_

Her concentration split again when one of the sisters asked, "Reez, you've seen  _Roman Holiday_ , haven't you? Roy told me you love Gregory Peck!"

"I have, and yes, I loved it," Riza answered quickly, honestly. But the subject didn't hold her interest for long. The pulse on her neck grew louder and faster, and she began to feel the thrum beneath her chest, too. Was Roy going to ask her to move in with him?

Roy laughed behind her.  _"Hey Bertie, can you uh- do me a favor? Can you introduce me to-"_  An obnoxious patron shouted a slur of orders at one of the bartenders, burying a good portion of Roy's conversation,  _"Well, he better be good. And he better be willing to work together with her- Oh shit, really? Thanks!"_

Riza searched her memory, attempting to put his name to a face, and came up blank. She had never met a "Bertie" among Roy's group of friends, she concluded. But the thought of living with Roy took over once more, and her heart leapt out of her skin. She would have her answer ready.

And the answer would be yes.


	7. the sunset inside a frame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again life got in the way, but I hope the wait is worth it! Commissioned art for this chapter was done by the wonderful Gio, and you can view it on my tumblr [**ruikosakuragi**](http://ruikosakuragi.tumblr.com/). Mmhmm, yeah, look at Roy's arms ;)

**February 2015**

Roy cracked an eye open. He saw a glimpse of his girlfriend holding a pile of magazines in one arm. Riza was hovering over him, a cold hand resting on his shoulder. She shook him, mildly.

"Roy," she roused, her voice gentle. "It's 8:30. You gotta get ready."

He brushed it off, turning the other way. "It's Saturday… Gimme 10 more minutes..." Then something soft, warm, and furry skimmed the bare of his back, tickling him. He tossed a careless hand over and swatted the dog, "Hayate, get off-"

With a pitiful whimper the Shiba leaped off the bed, its trotting fading as sleep overcame him once more. He eased his body and gradually dozed off.

A cold finger pricked his skin this time.

"Roy, look what I got."

He hummed softly, as though the sound could fool her into thinking he was fully awake.

"Roy," Riza repeated, this time with an exasperated tinge in her tone. She shook him again, harder, and if it had been anyone else but  _her_ , he would have already smacked the hand away. Instead, he grunted his protest.

"Wake up! You gotta get ready for the interview. It starts in a couple of hours!"

"Give me a kiss and I'll wake up," he mumbled, mouth breathing into the pillow sandwiched between his arms. He didn't make a motion to turn. When he heard absolute silence, he stilled and let his lids droop further, and further...

The mattress dipped behind him, and he heard panting. A muted snicker from Riza, followed by an uninvited, sticky hot slobber tracking the side of his cheek. His eyes shot open and he rolled around. "Hayate! What the hell!"

His girlfriend laughed, amusedly, holding their dog within her shaky grip. She lowered Hayate to the ground, the dog fixing his stare at him, smiling, as if it hadn't done anything wrong. Riza curled Roy a lopsided grin, "You didn't say who you wanted the kiss from. Hayate was more than happy to give you one."

Roy rolled over until he was face-to-face with his girlfriend, breaking a lazy smile. He slurred, "Alright. You got me. I'm awake now." His legs and arms shot out, and he pulled them into a luxurious stretch, popping a link of stiff joints.

Riza returned with a light chuckle, her fists on her hips. She picked up something from the floor, and he soon found a roll of magazines in her hand. He stuck an arm out towards her, fingers beckoning to coax him out of bed. But when she took it without suspicion, a dark grin teased the corner of his mouth and he pulled her onto the bed with him.

With a surprised yelp, Riza dropped one of the magazines atop the duvet and barrelled over it. She smacked him on the arm playfully, laughing, "Look what you made me do! You're all creased now."

" _I'm_  all creased?" he said, confused.

"It's from your photoshoot. The issue came out today, so I went out and got one."

As if struck by lightning, Roy jolted up, rigid spine climbing against the headboard. "Oh shit, it came out today? Do I  _want_  to see this?"

"Yes. Yes, you do," she nodded and smiled widely, as if she couldn't contain her excitement. Cuddling up against his side, she uncreased the magazine and flipped it over.

His eyes widened.

"Oh my. That… yeah. I uh don't know what to say," Roy stammered, from awe  _and_  shock, his gaze latching onto the cover. Admiring it briefly, he remarked, "But I guess it looks good. Good photoshop skills."

On the latest issue of Men's Fitness magazine was Roy Mustang, captured in his Syfy character's blue-and-white uniform pants. His black tank-top was purposely shoved from the hem up and cinched in one hand to show off a pack of well-defined abdomen. His hair was mussed in an attractive way, draping over piercing, smoldering-set eyes that trademarked Colonel Reynolds' womanizing persona. And his arms. They looked  _appealing_ , the scant light hitting at just the right angles, accentuating strong, hard lines he didn't even know he had.

He still remembered the dash of scarlet on his cheeks when the photographer growled at him, ordering him to yank up his shirt and pretend-rip it. Then the man reminded him time and time again to keep his biceps flexed, until the muscles beneath burned with as much intensity as the man's virulent enthusiasm. Roy also had to water-starve himself for hours beforehand, and only after, he realized how physically painful dehydration could be.

Do it for the screaming fangirls, the man had roared while snapping his pictures, be sexy! If only Roy had known what being  _famous_  entailed-

"We both know nothing here had been photoshopped," Riza corrected, a suggestive smirk to her lips. When her soft fingers brushed along his naked abdomen, he shuddered, goosebumps dotting up his arms.

But he supposed the photographer knew his trade, moulding what he felt was a series of awkward poses into one flattering image. From the look in Riza's eyes, she seemed to appreciate it. There was no reason he should be ashamed of the result, though it might have started out that way at first glance.

Skimming the big, bold texts along the bottom, Roy mused aloud, "Riza, did you read this cover? It says, 48 hours of sex." When she locked onto his mischievous gaze, he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"That is physically impossible," she chuckled lightly and twisted her legs over the side of the bed, paving a way for the cool draft of winter to hit the side of his body. "And you better get up. You don't want to be late."

"Don't forget dinner tonight," he called out.

"Wait. Tonight?" Riza asked, incredulous, face forward. Searching through his dress shirts, she picked one out - a maroon one that she claimed complemented his dark hair - and hung it over the bathroom door.

Sluggishly, he writhed around and propped up one arm. The bed shifted to his weight. "Yeah. Providence. Remember?"

She glanced back at him, lips pursed in uncertainty. "Oh. 6PM, right?"

"No. I changed it to 7PM, just in case the movie audition runs late," he amended.

With a quiet shuffle, she ventured their drawers where he kept his undergarments. "Sorry. I meant 7PM."

The corner of his lips twitched up in amusement. "You need some coffee there?"

She tossed his boxer onto the bed. "No. I just forgot."

"But Riza Hawkeye rarely forgets," he teased.

He paused and stared, waiting for her to catch onto his bait. Sure enough she whirled about as predicted, but instead of seeing a simmering temper, her cheeks flared red and a dot of a tear splashed the corner of her eyes. Trapped in that odd predicament, Riza swiftly turned around until her back confronted him once more.

"You think you'll get the role?" she asked hurriedly.

The lines between his brows narrowed in consideration. "Hey, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied coolly and shared with him a collected face, as if to show that her reddened cheeks and her sad brown eyes were never there in the first place.

To others, her reassurance would have been acceptable, but in the short time they'd known each other, Roy had become accustomed to the little nuances in her tone and the silent conversation within her subtle expressions. It hadn't been long at all since they shared a home, but he always felt like he had known her for much longer.

Perhaps because she was like a character in one of his playbooks, one whose mannerisms and tiny but meaningful inflections were constantly overanalyzed. Perhaps it was the manner in which they both chased after their dreams, with matching fervor and inexorability. Or perhaps because she had always had his heart, and not a day went by without worrying a little about her.

"Something happened," Roy asserted, crawling to the edge of the bed. Cautiously, the tips of his toes touched the chilled wooden floor, but he forced them to lay flat.

Raising her hand, she waved him away. "No. It's nothing important."

He pressed, "What is it?"

She spun to face him with a baleful stare, ready to snap at a moment's notice. It was a look she wore when trying to hide something. "You should just worry about what they'll ask you at the interview today."

On careful feet, Roy stood, the mattress creaking below him. He breathed in deeply and let out a long, resigned sigh, "I know something's bothering you. And I'm not trying to annoy you, but maybe I can help."

The tension tipped dangerously by a prolonged silence, but he fixed steadfastly on her and she eventually relented, "Well, my dad called this morning, and I'm also worried about next week's performance." Then hesitantly, she added, "I also just received a call from the record label in Studio City - it was a no go."

A pair of soothing hands rubbed the skin on her shoulder. "You want to talk about it?" he asked.

Immediately, she shook her head.

"Okay then. You wanna talk about your performance for next week? Relieve that off your mind?" he suggested.

She quirked an uneven smile. "I don't want to let them down, you know. The concert is something they've been looking forward to for half a year now."

"I have faith that all three of you will do very, very well," Roy consoled, rubbing the rounds on her shoulders.

"Will you be able to make it?" she asked wishfully. "I know you said you could, but you've been really busy lately. Just in case your schedule has changed since I-"

He cut her off, reassuringly, and brought his palms to her cheeks, "I'll be there."

When she flickered a smile - a small, grateful smile - Roy could see some of the sparks collected in her eyes once again. She kissed him lightly on the lips, "Go shower. I'll make coffee," then she left the bedroom without another word, a trail of a soft hum reverberating from her lips, a new tune she'd been tinkering with Heymans and Maria.

* * *

 

The sourness on his tongue tasted the strongest at the end of the phone call. It wasn't from the acidity of the half-drunk black coffee in his hand, but rather from the way his daughter abruptly ended their call without allowing him to speak more than a 'Hello Elizabeth' and a 'Don't hang up'. Calling her from the coffee shop landline was a terrible idea, and Berthold Hawkeye should have realized sooner that the deception would have angered her all the more.

Eva, who was perching quietly beside him, offered an apologetic gaze. He returned a contemplative smile. In his state of despondency, Berthold discovered a glimmer of joy; his wife had assented to a meeting with him. And what started as a stretch of awkward silence turned into a fruitful, hour and a half long conversation that cleared the gloomy air and brought about a relieved sigh from both parties.

His wife had never cheated on him. Rather, Eva Hawkeye had been visiting her employer and his marriage counselor husband for advice on their crumbling relationship. She took the guest room, she confessed, and there was no sexual play of any kind between her and her boss, who was gay and happily married.

"Are you sure you want to try this again with me?" Berthold asked, tracing the porcelain rim of the saucer. Then he chuckled nervously, "You're going against doctor's orders here. Fred did say I'm a lost cause and you're better off without me."

She sniffed and wiped her runny nose and then dabbed her mascara-smeared eyes, her emotions on full display. "He said that as a therapist, he'd tell me to work through our problems together. But as a friend, he said I should get a divorce and find a better man who would pay more attention to me." She shook her head and laughed softly, "And I thought divorce was the right decision. But seeing you so miserable and trying so, so hard to win me back just gnawed at me."

"I'm set in my ways, Eva," he cautioned. "I don't trust myself not to fall back to how I was before."

"I know," she nodded, "but it wasn't all your fault." She paused, "I wanted to see you hurt… so when you thought I was fooling around with my boss, I let you believe it was true. Clearly we both have to work at this together."

Berthold slid a remorseful gaze to her, catching a mirror of his own guilt in her clear blue irises. He chuckled, scoffed, and mumbled a string of self-deprecating words under a heavy breath. Funny how the ache of separation had to intercede before things could be right again. A flood of emotions overtook in that instant, and Berthold was left speechless. For sweet, gentle Eva to turn vindictive, he must be one hell of a husband.

There was so much to say in the short span of time they had, but he knew, first and foremost, that he owed her an apology. "I am sorry, Eva."

"I'm sorry, too, Berthold. And as nice and pleasant and open as we are now, we know things will be tough before we both could get to where we want."

"I'll try my best," he conceded, "My job always put you at number two, and I only realized that now."

She smiled, "Didn't that mysterious friend of yours tell you to stop working so much? I notice you talk to him over the phone quite a lot."

"Ahh yes. He's a shameless philanderer, but a good man nonetheless. I was actually surprised by the sound advice he gave me. It's hard to believe he holds so much wisdom at such a young age," Berthold supplied. "I met him at The Marmont after a meeting with one of our clients."

"What does he do?" Eva asked.

"He's an actor. He's on a show on some cable channel, but you know me. I never bothered looking him up."

Eva laughed, as if pleased with herself. It was a delightful sound he hadn't heard in a long time. "Yes, you care very little about the entertainment industry, which I find baffling considering the clients you work with. And speaking of actor, Riza's boyfriend is an actor."

His hearing perked, and he stole a glimpse of his wife when curiosity got the better of him. "Oh really? Last I spoke to her, he was a musician. Claudio something. Doesn't she always date a musician?"

The soft crease in between her brows deepened. "I'm surprised you know that about our daughter. I didn't think you ever cared enough to ask her."

His knowledge of his daughter's courting preference was a shock even to himself. "Just something I noticed," Berthold shrugged. But something more instinctive took hold, and he ventured, "What else do you know about this new boyfriend?"

"Not much beside his first name. She's been very busy recently. I haven't met him yet, but Riza said she's going to introduce me when she records her new song in a few days."

"What's his name?"

"Roy."

Displeased, his mouth thinned into a flat line. "That's too common of a name. I have four Roy's on my contact list, all actors, some old, some young. I won't be able to track him down before he gets too far with her. What if she's dating the same philandering Roy I know?"

"Riza's a sensible woman, and I'd like to think we raised her well," Eva pacified with a small smile, laying a tender hand atop his and moving her thumb across his skin to comfort. "She won't date anyone she deems unworthy. Your friend Roy sounds nothing like her type."

Berthold let his thoughts wander for a bit before concurring with his wife, nodding, "Yeah, you're right." Then he whisked her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it fondly, just as he had done on their first date. "And I should have listened to you when you told me to reach out to her."

"You two used to be so close when she was younger, and you were such a doting father," Eva reminisced. "Is it so bad she wants to do what she loves?"

It took him a second to realize he had been holding his breath. Berthold tipped his head towards the sky, remembering the little girl who couldn't wait to show off her rendition of  _Over the Rainbow_. Face flushed, eyes bright, she sang for him. How long had it been since he had seen his daughter that happy?

Smiling at Eva, Berthold said, "No, I suppose not."

* * *

 

Her phone screen flashed and buzzed one more time, but Riza was quick to tamper down the building irritation, biting sharp retorts in between her teeth; it was unbecoming to let loose in such a classy establishment. She slid her thumb across the screen, the display darkening, her composure returning. Her father had never been this persistent before. Clearly, one year and two months was his breaking point.

Riza Hawkeye had graduated top of her class with a degree in criminal justice. With an internship position secured at her father's law firm, her life had been carefully designed for wealth and success. All was abandoned, however, when she picked up her guitar again at the age of twenty-two and declared with vehemence:  _I'm going to pursue music._

Berthold's fury was worse than a strike of his hand. He chose to fight her obstinacy with words, jabbing viciously at her pride and hammering condemnation. At least physical marks would have eventually healed. Instead, all Riza remembered was the poison of his tongue and a condescending scoff for good measure while proclaiming that she had always been the family's disappointment.

The murmurs inside Providence was a bit too quiet for her liking. It was missing the liveliness of her usual diner and the shuffle of brisk feet against linoleum flooring. Here, the sound of heels were dampened by the plush, deep-blue carpet beneath her. Even the clinking of porcelain wares seemed muted. It gave her too much room to think, and naturally, she was reminded of the disappointing conversation that took place this morning between her and the recording studio.

Riza lifted her pensive gaze from the fizzy drink in her hand. 7:45PM and still no telltale signs of Roy. A pair of uneasy eyes roamed the dim surroundings, restless fingers twisting the napkin on her lap.

Riza was clad in a long-sleeved cream blouse, drapey hem neatly tucked underneath a black pencil skirt. Her refined appearance, infused with reserved mannerism, seemed to belong in such a swanky place. The formal attire, the low-tone conversations, and the entire candlelight affair, however, only made the atmosphere colder than the February chill beyond these decorated walls. And at one point or another, she felt like a sore thumb: lonely and strangely out of place.

The chair across her slid out, and Riza woke from her musings, discovering a set of frantic eyes.

Roy.

"Riza, I'm  _so_  sorry I'm late," he implored with earnestness, swiftly taking the seat without so much a noise.

It took some willpower to muster up a genuine smile after a lousy day. "It's alright. You did warn me the discussion might run late."

She saw him catch his breath, and with a smooth rake through a head of slick-back hair, Roy relaxed against the back cushion of the chair. "I didn't think it was going to run this late. I'm glad they seated you though. I thought they would make you wait."

"I think they normally do. But when I gave them the reservation name, they seemed to make an exception."

He laughed, looking amused. "That's good."

"How was it? Did they like your screen test?"

"I think so, but I won't hear anything for a few weeks. They mentioned finding the perfect female cast will take some time."

The waitress who had been attending the surrounding table came and greeted them, offering Riza and Roy the menu book before sauntering away with the promise of two glasses of water and a basket of fresh bread. When she arrived a few minutes later, she memorized their order and flashed Roy a coy smile. It abraded her nerves, but Roy didn't seem to take stock of it.

"I'm starving. I hope you are too," he grinned, picking up a slice of sourdough and lathering it with whipped butter.

Her eyes mocked the elegant setting on the table. "I'm not as hungry after I looked at the prices. We could have gone somewhere else. Somewhere cheaper."

He smiled, "I wanted to take you somewhere nice now that I finally have enough money to do it. But nevermind that. How was your day? How are Heymans and Maria doing?"

"Maria came down with the flu a few days ago, but she reassured us she'll be better by next week. We practiced a bit, Heymans wrote something ridiculous-" she chuckled, "but otherwise nothing much." Then Riza beamed, the content in her stomach jumping, her pulse pounding. She had been waiting to tell him this news all afternoon. "But I'll have you know that I finally finished the piece I've been working on since October."

He took a bite of the bread, then swallowed. "Oh? The one you sang at my mom's bar? I thought that one was finished a long time ago."

She smiled sheepishly, extending her hands on the table to fiddle with the linen, like a jittery schoolgirl caught in a love confession. "I wasn't happy with it until this afternoon. I wanted Maria and Heymans to look it over."

Roy took both of her hands, his gaze openly affectionate, and clasped them in his. "I'm glad. Maybe you can sing it for me later tonight?" he winked.

A woman approached and crouched beside their table. "Oh hi. Hello."

Startled, Riza withdrew her hands, pushing them under the table.

The young brunette stooped beside Roy, her slender fingers fidgeting along the top of his chair, gold bangles dangling from her wrist. She didn't look older than twenty-five, wrapped in a yellow, baby doll dress that flattered her ample bosom. Her long waves suited her round face, with pale, green eyes attractively hidden beneath side-swept bangs.

"I am very sorry to disturb you," the woman giggled, glancing offhandedly at Riza before fixing her stare back at Roy. She closed in on him, her cheeks coloring prettily, "Would you mind if I take a picture with you? I'm such a big fan."

Slightly taken aback, Roy nodded in reflex. "Oh, uh sure."

"Oh thank you so much, Roy!"

The way she said his name coated a bitter taste in Riza's mouth. Riza could only glare her disapproval, mouth sculpted into a frown, hoping for the woman to notice. With her puckered lips so close to his face, she held out her cellphone, snapping not one but  _two_  selfies. The whole exchange was difficult to watch.

"Oh my God, when you pushed Lieutenant Serra against the wall and you said, 'Damn the frat law! There's no one I'd rather have but you!' and then you kissed her? I freaked out! I was  _soooo_  happy!" the brunette blabbed on, looking like she wanted to scream, but her volume was controlled in the quiet environment. The woman then turned to Riza, "I'm sorry Miss, but do you think you can take our picture? It will be quick, I promise, then I'll be on my way."

And when Riza thought she couldn't get anymore peeved. Taking her cellphone, Riza captured her portrait, framing her boyfriend's smiling face beside the attractive woman. This was becoming a common occurence whenever he was spotted in public.

With forced cordiality, Riza returned her phone. "Here you go."

The brunette thanked her. Tapping Roy on the shoulder and dawdling her hand there for far longer than she should, the woman squealed her gratitude. Eventually she rejoined her male friends, a square table of three near the window.

"Thanks, Riza," Roy said. "And sorry about that."

"Why are you apologizing?" Riza bit back, harsher than intended.

"I could have said no. I'm still not used to this whole thing," he smiled ruefully. "Anyway, we were talking about your day. Tell me more." He grabbed her hands again, clutching them tenderly, but the day's frustration had already chafed the last of her amenity.

But Riza had to swallow her answer, jerking her hands away, when the waitress arrived with their first course. Gently, she set a white platter in front of Riza, and then Roy. "This is kanpachi, dotted with lemon zest and olive oil on top, and a generous shavings of black truffle for that earthy note. Enjoy."

The waitress smiled and left, but Riza didn't miss the appreciative double-take at her boyfriend before her heels rounded to the kitchen.

Riza snorted, lifting her fork, "Overall? My day was annoying."

"Why is that?"

Sighing heavily, she rolled the niggling ache in her neck, suddenly feeling very tired, "My dad wouldn't stop calling me. That bastard."

He reached the tips of her fingers and, absentmindedly, rubbed the rough patch of skin that had seen the cords of her guitar. The other hand shoved the tiny meal into his mouth. "Do you want to talk about him?"

She scoffed, "What is there to say? He told me if I want to pursue music, then I'll have to leave his house. So I left his house that same night and roomed with Rebecca, and now I'm living with you."

"What was his reason?" Roy asked, drawing warm circles on the back of her hand.

"Remember what I told you about my mom?" she huffed, scooping the spoonful of fish into her mouth. Swallowing, she continued, "He's afraid I'd end up like her. Dead. Depressed. An alcoholic. No one remembers the good about her except us."

Roy simply acknowledged with a nod.

"I mean, he should have expected it. I am her daughter, and I've played the guitar since I was young. But it doesn't mean I'll throw my life to drugs and alcohol. I mean, he fell in love with her because of her singing. I don't understand why, all of a sudden, music is a  _bad_  thing. Where's the logic in that?"

"Maybe," Roy started, keeping his voice down, "your singing reminds him too much of your mother. Maybe he still isn't over her death."

His reasoning pulled her into a band of ruminations. It was possible, she supposed, but it still didn't make everything right. There were still pieces to put together, and she needed more time before she could face him amiably.

"Do you think I'm being unreasonable?" she asked.

He bent forward, expression solemn, leaning towards her until she was in clear view of the worn out lines below his eyes. "You're not being unreasonable. But if he's trying to reach out, maybe you should give him a chance to explain himself."

"It's not that easy."

Abruptly, Roy pulled his grasp from hers. The waitress came, balancing two large plates in her hand. Replacing their empty plates, she prattled, "...a square of tuna with basil seeds and pickled ginger…" and then she strolled away, an alluring sway to her hips.

Sticking a fork into his plate, Roy said, "It's not easy, but you gotta start somewhere."

She stirred the colorful dish violently, creating a storm with her utensil. "He said my music is terrible, I'm not his daughter, and that I can never be like my mom. You still think I should let him off that easily?"

His breath snagged, but he quickly collected himself. "Jesus Christ, that's awful."

"Now you see what I'm going through?"

"But honestly though," Roy began, a caution about his tone, "not that I condone his actions or anything, but I think he's just watching out for you. I'm sure his intentions are good."

The anger she had buried resurfaced, and she snarled, "What part about  _that_  is good intention? Imagine if your mom told you all of those-"

But her words were clipped short when a young woman - blonde, tall, and busty - approached Roy, bending at the knees. "Roy Mustang?" she simpered. "Oh my God, it's you, isn't it? Can I have your autograph? And a picture, if you don't mind?"

Roy peered at Riza, then looked back at the starstruck woman. Reluctantly, he replied, "Well, I uh-"

"Please?" the woman begged, fluttering her lashes at him.

He motioned his hand apologetically, smiling to appease, "Sorry, but I'm a bit... busy... at the moment."

"Oh," the blonde rose up, slowly, her face crestfallen, "that's alright then. I'm sorry to bother you."

When she was a good distance away, Riza righted her posture and folded her arms across her chest, "Anyways, I was saying that if your mom had said all of those things to you, you wouldn't have forgiven her that easily. You don't  _know_ how I feel."

"How do you know?" Roy challenged, mimicking her pose. There was a rise in his tone that grated on her, peeling away her restraints. "I don't think I'm vindictive."

"Are you saying I am?" she spat.

"No, but you can be stubborn," he stated, very quietly, as if afraid she would hear.

"Speak up. I can't hear you," Riza mocked. A couple was seated at the table next to them. The woman eyed Roy once, twice, and her mouth parted in delight upon recognition, face lighting up like she had unearthed a case full of diamonds. Roy followed Riza's eyes and landed on the woman. The woman smiled, and he smiled back.

Spitefully, Riza confronted him and hissed, "You need to get a better handle of yourself around these women,  _especially_  when we're having a conversation."

Roy jerked his head to her and shot back, "Why? Are you jealous?" Immediately he realized his folly. His jaw dropped and his breath hitched, dark eyes softening in penitence. He cursed under his breath, "Shit. Riza, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

At this, Riza laughed bitterly. She threw her napkin on the table and sprang up, fisting her crumpled skirt and pulling it down. She fixed a vicious glare at Roy, who sat rigid as a log, speechless, remorse fraying his handsome face. Her heart pumping, she thrust herself in the direction of the restroom, eluding prying eyes, all the while struggling to push down the lump in her throat.


	8. here's to the hearts that break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This one officially took the reign as the hardest chapter to write. Ever. On another note, chapters 9 and 10 are done and will only need to go through editing/proofreading before posting, so probably sometime mid-late next week. Hope you enjoy!

The speaker above her head buzzed with static, and Seb's voice echoed from the ceiling of the small, rented Santa Monica studio, "That was good, guys. Riza, you want to record yours next?"

It was a simple question, but a layer of sweat dripped along the crevices of her palm, smearing the fretboard of her guitar. She swept her hand against the length of her jeans, ridding it away. "Sure."

The shiplapped panels were supposed to provide the space coziness, like a cabin in the woods. It was meant to imbue warmth and calm, subdued sconces resembling dawn to ease musicians into a flawless execution. It was the reason she chose it, albeit costing a little more, and to some extent, it was doing wonders for Riza. The only thing missing was the scent of pines.

The narrow chamber was reminiscence of the converted garage in which her mother used to practice. An area near the connected kitchen floor would shake, riffs of electric guitars tearing it apart, and yet the steady beating of bass drums would reinforce the instruments that they were and not an earthquake that was becoming. Fascinated, little Riza would dock on said kitchen floor and watch the shadows of their movements dance beneath the door.

"Ri?"

Swiveling on her stool, Riza found the drummer twirling her hickory stick, a knowing grin below a furtive wink. " _Unsigned Letter_."

Riza inhaled deeply and blew and aggravating trill at her teasing. She sighed, " _Yes_ , Maria.  _Unsigned Letter_."

"I wonder what your honey-boy will say when he hears the final product," Heymans snickered from behind the keyboard.

Riza let out a cynical cackle. "Wow, you two are clearly enjoying this a little too much. And that's honey- _man_  to you."

Heymans tottered a laugh, "Your boyfriend's fucking whipped. He's a boy. Clearly." She turned around with an intention to admonish but found herself speechless, air ceasing beneath the bridge of her nose and blood rushing to her cheeks. Heymans was puckering his lips, piping some repulsive kissing noises and wrapping his portly arms around himself. Hugging and caressing his sides. "Oh Riza, my darling- Oh, the song you wrote for me melts me into a puddle. I'm so dizzy with love, ahh..."

"That's totally what he would do," Seb joined in from the speaker, his tone wry but held much amusement.

"Okay, Heymans, stop. That's disgusting. I don't need to see you touching yourself sensually like that," Maria chided, but her body trembled nevertheless, and then the mirth grew. She slapped a loud hand against her knee, erupting laughter.

Under another circumstance Riza would have raised her voice to stop all the playful stings and jabs, especially when it was at the expense of her boyfriend. Considering how the day had fared, however, tense and trying, the ridicule was quite welcomed.

Before she knew she had joined in on the fanfare, letting a bubble swirl in her throat. And before long, tears welled up in her eyes, and bashfully, she even admitted to liking the small, overly romantic things Roy had done for her.

"Alright, last one, guys, and then we're done," Riza finally said, sternly, pushing her smile down.

As Riza looked up to give the engineer the go ahead, she saw her stepmother enter the control room. Eva Hawkeye smiled and, waving from behind the glass, mouthed a silent 'good luck'. Her mother leaned against the door tentatively, finding a comfortable spot, and Riza settled the headphone over her ears.

When the track was finally complete, left to be mastered at the capable hands of Seb, Riza began to clean up after herself. Six o'clock was drawing near - the promised time to meet at The Echo - and rather than feel the sting of anxiety, she was pumped with adrenaline. It was akin to the sensation one would feel before speaking publicly, exciting and nerve racking, spiking her senses in a strange, inviting way.

With her stepmother waiting beyond the glass panel, Riza signaled to Heymans and Maria to leave first. They efficiently packed up their trash and personal apparatus and trotted out of the room, leaving Riza to scour the floor for missed items. Then, lugging her guitar in one hand, she gripped the case as though it would dull the none-too-desirable jitters that shot up her limbs.

Eva cast a wide smile when she caught her eyes. "That was wonderful, Riza."

"Thank you," Riza said, occupying the seat beside Eva. "It took a while before I was happy with that last one. Went through several renditions even."

"I liked the melody; it was soothing. And the lyrics sounded awfully personally. Will you be performing it tonight?"

"Yes, I will be performing it tonight, and yes… the lyrics are personal," Riza confessed, suddenly a little self-conscious, fingers traversing the long stripes of her plaid pants. "I suppose you can say Roy inspired it..."

Eva asked, "How are you two doing?"

"Good."

"Just good?" Eva asked again, with a tone that knew more than she let on.

"I mean he  _is_  happy. And if he's happy, then I'm happy..." she tailed, peering up at Eva, who stared at her with a look that urged her to go on. So she did. " _But_  he is also very busy all the time, so I kinda miss the time when he wasn't so... famous."

Her stepmother hummed in acknowledgment. "You should be proud. Not all actors become famous right off the bat."

"Oh I am, don't get me wrong," Riza placated with her hand. "It's just that… sometimes I look at him and I feel like... I fell... behind?"

It was like Eva to dissect everything her stepdaughter said into tiny pieces, contemplating on each word like she was putting shards of glass back together. She had done this too when Riza was a child, a snarky little bird resenting the world after losing her mother. Eva would watch her in silence while Riza spouted a few choice words to ward off her presence. Irritating and persistent. Yet quiet and comforting. It was this facet of Eva's personality that allowed Riza to finally open up and build trust around the woman.

"I understand you want to do this on your own," Eva began, "and we both know you have all the talent you need to succeed. But maybe it's time to talk to your father." Riza gawked at her, and her stepmother seemed to have expected her reaction and continued, "I am not saying you need his help, but he's well versed in the industry and some luck and connection are involved."

"Oh I don't know…" Riza trailed.

"I know your father is very good at getting on people's nerves-" her stepmother chuckled.

"Tell me about it."

"-but he apologized to me."

At this, Riza stared at her, awe and wonder.

"So I'm certain he will compromise with you," Eva finished, a finality to her tone.

Not once had she ever heard an apology spoken since she had left his home. Clearly her stepmother was out of her mind. "Is he sick?"

"I'm moving back home, Riza," Eva said, wistfully. "And I wish you would give your father a chance to do that. He's been calling, has he not?"

"Yes, but I still think  _you_  deserve  _more_  than what he can offer," Riza frowned.

"Well, your father can be pretty damn stubborn, but his intentions are good."

Riza chuckled mockingly at that, "Funny you say that. Roy said the exact same thing the other day."

Bringing her fingers up, Eva reached out to brush the bangs out of her stepdaughter's eyes, tucking the long wisps behind her ear. It was a gesture Riza had grown to love from her. "Give him a chance?" Eva supplicated. "Talk to him and see what he wants."

"I'll think about it," Riza murmured.

"Thank you," Eva smiled.

"Not tonight though. I've got too much on my mind right now, but maybe tomorrow. The man can wait."

"Oh, and speaking of  _men_ ," Eva interrupted tenderly, "is Roy on his way here?"

Riza peeked at the clock above the studio door. "He was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago." Taking out her phone in spontaneous fashion, she slid her gaze to the flashing screen, the corners of her mouth upturned over an unread message. Her voice low, she said, "So it seems he's stuck at the studio, but he will see us tonight at The Echo."

"Riza, I won't be able to make it tonight, I'm sorry," Eva admitted, her expression lamentable. "We were called for a last minute catering at a private party in West LA."

"That's too bad," Riza said. Then she laughed at the random thought that floated past her head. "But knowing Roy I'm sure he will have it recorded on his phone, so I'll ask him to show it to you when you two finally meet."

* * *

 

Frustration rose into his throat, and Roy barked, "You believed those enemy lies? Even if they were telling the truth, how could you just lose the will to fight? I expected more out of you, Lieutenant."

"I'm very sorry," the Lieutenant replied, timid.

The hospital cot squeaked beneath him, and he propelled his arm and berated the uniformed officer with his forefinger. "Learn to keep it together…. Ah, and you can't shut down under pressure."

"Cut, cut!" the director in front of him suddenly cried, the megaphone glued to his mouth. The slant of the man's eyes was reproaching, riled.

Across the floor, the cameraman rose up, rubbing at the knee that had pressed against the sheet-tile hospital floor in the last fifteen minutes. The boom operator beside him rolled his neck and moaned, lowering the elongated mic with a quiet irritation. The production assistant, furthest from the set, pushed himself off of the seat on the window sill and pilfered his phone from his pocket, dragging his feet to make a call.

The broad-chested director returned to him, the production keylight creating a luster-like effect around his gray hair. He looked like an angel passing down judgment, but his domineering posture and expressive brows made him more similar to a demon instead. In less than two months, Oscar Raven had climbed to the top of 'the worst people to work with' list. The man was hard to please, with an affinity for an impossible level of perfection.

"Colonel Reynolds, what the fuck was that?"

He liked to call everyone by their character's name. It was supposed to help his cast get into their roles. Apparently.

"This scene is supposed to showcase the close relationship between your character and hers! You are supposed to be worried for her! You hesitated!"

"Sorry, I was a bit distrac-"

"Where's that fire you had during rehearsal, huh?" he challenged. "We need that here!"

Roy raised his palms in surrender, "Okay, okay. I'll do that next time."

"Next time?" the director rose on tiptoes, looming over him, as if the extra height would incite fear. He was already taller than Roy, and rising another three inches was his way of saying that everything was non-negotiable. "What do you mean next time?"

"We ran late, and I kinda need to be somewhere right now. Besides, I think everyone could use a break," Roy protested. "We've been at it for  _hours_."

"No. If we do that, we'll be behind on schedule," his tone brooked no argument.

"We're  _already_  behind on schedule. One day won't make a difference," Roy argued.

"Yes, it will, and we do it  _now_." Raven tilted his chin in survey of the room and clapped his hands, loudly, "Take your places, people!"

Lieutenant Serra reclaimed her spot, and in silent acquiescence, Roy glimpsed at the clock above the prop room, grimacing as the seconds rolled into the next hour.

* * *

 

For the third time now the drummer stood and paced to the break station, gripping her used paper cup and poured another batch of coffee.

"Coffee?" she offered Riza.

"No thanks." And for the third time, Riza resisted the temptation of caffeine, choosing to sit quietly with her back dipped into the leather couch. The effects that came with coffee would only supply undesirable bouts of jitters, so she chose to drink the aroma instead.

"Who's playing now?" Maria asked, struggling with the creamer lid.

"Shadows of the Cloud, according to the roster," Heymans said, quick fingers twirling with Maria's drummer stick. "They're good. I watched them perform a few months ago. And what's up with the coffee? You'd think a place like this would serve us alcohol, because that's what I need."

"I'm pretty sure they don't want drunk performers going out there, especially you," Maria sneered. "And of course we have to go after them, because they save the best for last.  _Not_."

"We'll be fine," Riza said, mediating the dispute. "We practiced, and we're ready, and we'll be fine." And she began to pull the black dots from the pages of her sheet music, flinging the chords to the forefront of her mind.  _Gm. Eb. Cm. D._

"You'll be more convincing if you're not fiddling with your thumbs right now, Ri," the drummer laughed, pressing the black liquid to her lips.

Riza chuckled breathily, "Okay, maybe I am nervous. This is my first big gig after all." She didn't even realize she'd been doing that.

"Only three hundred people. No big deal," Heymans snorted.

"Yeah, thanks for pointing that out, smartass," Maria scoffed. "She just said it's her  _first_  big gig."

* * *

 

The back door to the studio slammed behind him, and Roy hurried to his car parked a block away. His strides were long and clumsy, and he coasted frantic hands over his pants and jacket pockets, taking stock of his keys, wallet, and cellphone.

Berthold had arrived an hour ago, earlier than the promised time. The constant chiming from the man - a text every half hour, a few attempts for a call - only tormented him with panic. There was still a twenty-mile stretch between him and The Echo, a whirlwind of traffic in between, and the impossible luck of finding street-metered parking along Sunset Boulevard. If he didn't get there within thirty minutes then-

"Roy, wait!" a voice called from behind, and he shut his eyes in frustration.

Halted, the actor swiveled and spotted one of the stand-ins he had met on his first day. The young woman paced a few brisk steps, pulling up the zip to her jacket and stuffing her hands into the sewed-in pockets. She removed their gap quickly and stood mere inches from his face, and his nostril was suddenly suffocated with the vanilla fragrance she splashed on herself. He took a step back.

"It's so windy out here. You wouldn't think it can get this cold so close to spring."

"Julia, right?" Roy asked, hastily.

"Julia Crichton, yep," she smiled again, wider, and her eyes lit at his recognition.

"Okay, what does  _he_  want now?" he asked, impatient.

"Who's he?"

"Raven. You're here because he asked you to come get me, didn't he? Was something  _not_  perfect?"

"No actually," Julia chuckled, shaking her head, her fingers fiddling underneath the pockets. "I was going to say that... a few of us are grabbing beer at The Pub tonight… and I was just wondering if you wanna join us?"

"I can't. I have to be somewhere," Roy replied curtly, the tip of his feet itching to go. But at seeing her disappointment, he quickly added, "Not that I don't want to go, but right now is a bad time."

"Oh, how about tomorrow night then?" she asked again, hopeful. "I'll let the others know, and I'm sure we can reschedule."

He raised his hand to wave her off. "Please don't cancel on my account. You guys should enjoy yourselves."

"No, I'm sure they won't mind. You are the star of the show, after all," she simpered, toying with the loose locks of her long, reddish-brown hair.

"Look, I gotta go. I'll let you know tomorrow, okay?" Roy said, already strutting backwards, each step stumbling over the other in an attempt to increase speed.

"Wait! Can I have your number?"

He didn't stop moving. "Uh..."

"You know, just in case I can't reach you," she shouted from her spot. "I might not be on set for very long tomorrow."

Waving her off, Roy pivoted on his heels and sank them into the pavement, chasing his distance to the parking lot. There was simply too much on his mind right now. He'd apologize to her tomorrow.

* * *

 

They were up next, and the streak of perspiration along her back and underarms that was under control only a minute ago slipped and bled through her shirt. From backstage Riza peered at the musicians in the spotlight, evaluating them - the guitarist, the singer, the drummer - and admiring the confidence they seemed to wield in front of such a large crowd. Then she dragged her vision over the leaping crowd beyond...

Maria stuck her head out beside hers. "Shit they're good, and it's fucking packed. So much for no pressure huh?"

"Yep."

"Hey, you okay?" she ventured, her curious gaze following Riza's. "Are you looking for someone?"

"Hmm, no," Riza replied, belying the truth with indifference. Averting her gaze back to the performers, she took hold of the guitar that sat propped against the stage wall.

"Looking for Roy?" Maria asked, imperceptibly pulling aside the velvety curtain, aiming for a better angle. "Where is he?"

Riza pointed to the front row of the audience, at the mass of jutting hands. "You see Rebecca there? Right in the middle?"

"Mhmm, even from a mile away," Maria nodded. "Your friend stands out. Her hair is crazy. Just like her personality."

At this, Riza chuckled. "Yeah. And you see her boyfriend next to her? The guy with the blond hair? And then the dark haired guy with glasses next to him?"

"Yup, so you see," Maria began in a rather overly pleased note, the weight of her palm resting on Riza's shoulder, "Roy should be around there somewhere. He's probably just grabbing beer at the bar. Or in the restroom."

Riza looked at the drummer, her chin tilted back, her tone obstinate, "I didn't say anything about Roy."

"Oh dear, you don't have to say anything. I can  _see_  it."

Her phone pulsed beneath her pocket, and Riza reached it. "Ahh well, you're wrong. Because Jean just texted and said he doesn't know where Roy is."

"Oh. What time did you tell him we're supposed to come on?"

"We're last, so I told him around nine?"

"And what time is he done with filming?"

"He said eight at the latest."

Squeezing her shoulder, Maria reassured, "We have a few songs lined up, he'll at least catch one of them. Besides, you're saving _the best_ for last."

"Yeah. You're right," Riza mumbled, nodding. Absentmindedly, she clenched the neck of the guitar, her grip seeking a semblance of familiarity in the absence of another.

* * *

 

The entrance into The Echo was obstructed by a punishing wall of attendees. Its endless line snaked around the perimeter of the all-black building and onto the next dingy alley, stopping him at the edge of the curb and washing him with dread. A part of him wanted to test his name and face tonight, see if it could gain him immediate entry, be that bastard who cared little for protocols and attendees who had meted out a good chunk of their Saturday night.

"Hey. Hey man," the bouncer called from the admission booth, his voice furtive and low. The arms coiled behind his back illustrated a daunting presence, but the elation on his face was like one of a child receiving a bucket of Halloween candy.

Roy strode near, and the bouncer, whose smile seemed to have stretched wider than the line, flung an excited hand his way and started chuckling. Roy took his hand, albeit a little baffled, and the big man gripped it in both of his and shook it fiercely.

"Oh shit, you're that colonel from The Amestris, right? I recognized you immediately," he laughed, his deep-toned voice lilting up like a bird taking flight. "I'm not caught up because of work, but man, my wife's way ahead of me. She is  _in love_  with that show and wouldn't put it down, which is funny because Syfy channel ain't usually that dope."

"Yeah," Roy affirmed, hanging a conspicuous glance between the bouncer and the entrance. He wished he could have returned his reaction with a bit more thrill, but time was not on his hand. In the corner of his eye, the people in line shuffled and shifted, restless feet whispering, mouths sliding discreetly about something he couldn't quite catch. It felt as if they were suddenly aware of who he was.

The bouncer seemed to have read his mind. "Hey man, you going in?" he murmured, very quietly, palm shielding his mouth, as if he was  _also_  suddenly aware of who he was talking to.

The light in Roy's dark eyes promptly flickered again. And he didn't even have to ask; the man was letting him in without reluctance. "Yeah. My girlfriend's performing tonight."

"You can go ahead, but I need to check your ID," he laughed again, and swiftly took the driver's license Roy slid to him. "Still gotta do my job, you know?"

Roy rushed in at the nod of the bouncer and rapidly descended the staircase into the club. Beneath the plowing of drums, he strained his ears for lyrics, for singing. For Riza's voice. But there was only a concert of electric riffs singed with synthesizers and no vocals. No familiar verses, and no sedative crooning. On the open floor, the horde was split into two groups: a small one commanding the dance floor and the larger lounging by the bar. Surely the performance hadn't ended?

Roy stood in the middle sorting through faces, searching, hunting, the snug collar of his jacket all at once stifling and the sleeves warm. And when he swiped his phone, the signal was weak and unreliable, and no messages had come through. At the edge of panicking, a hand clapped his back and a familiar baritone called his name.

"Hey, you're finally here," Heymans saluted with a nod, his tone flat and indifferent. Why was he greeting him instead of performing? "Riza's in the ladies' room with Maria and Rebecca."

"Uh, is it... over already?"

"Yep, five minutes ago. You missed it by  _this_  much," the keyboardist shoved his hand up and made the gesture of a pinch with his fingers, underscoring his late arrival.

Roy could feel his stomach somersaulting, the dizziness from the action rushing up to his head.

"We did quite well, if I may say so myself, even though the crowd wasn't as jumpy as for the others. Heh. To be expected for a first time, unknown performer, I guess. And by the way, not to rub more salt on your wounds, but she dedicated that last song to 'her boyfriend'. To  _you_."

Groaning, Roy brought his fist to his mouth. He bit his knuckles, hurting his jaw in the process. "Oh, fuck,  _fuck_ …"

"Oh, and here she comes," Heymans intoned.

Roy whirled around and felt nauseous. The hair she normally wore up was down, the waves cascading far below her shoulders, but it was uncharacteristically unruly, a tangle of golden mess that framed a set of flustered cheeks and blackened eyes. Black. His heart stopped. He hoped -  _prayed_  - that she hadn't been crying and that the ring around her eyes was simply the messy working of a smudged makeup.

Rebecca and Maria were beside her, the best friend guiding by the loop around the arm and the drummer casting a sympathetic look at her profile. All of it told Roy there was a story behind the gesture.

Without warning, the brunette marched on ahead. Towards him.  _At_  him. She pierced the most pitiless glare at Roy he had ever seen, her nostrils fuming and eyes thin and vicious like a tiger ready to pounce. Shoulders raised sharply, Rebecca closed in on him and bared her teeth, but Riza pacified her with a hand on the shoulder.

Beside her, Riza watched her boyfriend, mute, motionless. Waiting.

"Riza, I'm so,  _so_  sorry," Roy rasped, begging, his hands mirroring his cause. "I'm so sorry."

As his eyes thinned in plea hers widened, as if surprised, and for the first time Roy thought she had come to understand. Her gaze, however, instantly left his and was set at someone or something behind him. Roy trailed it, finding Berthold standing mere inches away, face ruffled and bearing tense.

"I-" Berthold stuttered, "that was wonderful... I- I enjoyed your songs very much." Then he snapped his head to Roy, out of nowhere. "Where's the woman you wanted me to meet? I brought my friend like you asked me to."

"Desmond Miles from Dreamnation Records," the man next to Berthold interrupted, extending a hand to him. A linn of silver strands reached the curves of his broad shoulders, contrasting the dark skin and the bright red eyes that deepened a set of stubborn chin. He looked young, unlike the shade of his hair, and couldn't have been older than thirty-five. Immediately, Desmond turned to Riza. "Your music blew my mind. I talked to your bandmates, and they said you composed most of them. That last song, especially, was so achingly sincere."

"Well?" Berthold pressed, breaking Roy out of his daze. "Where is she?"

"Ahh, thanks for uh coming, Berthold and Miles," Roy said, his mind split between his girlfriend, the two men before him, and the strange circumstances he found himself in. Gently, reluctantly, Roy nudged Riza forward by the shoulder, "This is the woman I want you to meet. I wanted you-" Roy gestured to Miles, "to be here to hear her play because I think she's quite talented."

Miles flashed his red eyes, latching it on her, and pushed forth his largest, most delightful grin, "Riza Hawkeye, right? Like I told your bandmates, I am very,  _very_  impressed-"

But his girlfriend faced him instead, her tone clipped and brusque, "Roy,  _where_  were you?"

Riza Hawkeye was  _seething_ , every word making him shrink, and shrink, and shrink until he felt reduced to the size of a tennis ball. "I'm sor-"

"Stop saying sorry. It doesn't mean anything anymore," she countered.

"Riza, I can explain-" Roy began, his tone coming to his defense. He reached for her hand, but she reeled it in behind her.

Berthold interrupted loudly, pointing at Riza with a curt finger, " _This_  is the woman you wanted me to meet? Your  _girlfriend_?"

His gaze swung to Berthold. In his periphery, he saw Riza walk away. "Riza, wait!" Roy cried, pushing through the crowd. He grabbed her hand. "It took longer than we all thought. I didn't think it was gonna run so late-"

"You promised me two things today, Roy.  _Two_. And you did neither," Riza hissed, twisting out of his hold.

"Riza… Riza, wait, don't lea-"

Roy felt a harsh jab on his back. Berthold was there, and the man wore a mask terrifying enough to bully the devil into hiding. "Are you saying you're dating  _that_  girl? Riza Hawkeye?" The blond man flicked his forefinger in the direction of his girlfriend again, who was already out of sight.

"Yes!" Roy answered exasperatedly. "How many times do I have to tell you? Yes, I'm dating that girl!"

Out of the blue, the bony ridges of Berthold's knuckles connected to his cheek. It was fast and abrupt and sharply biting, catching him by surprise. "What the hell, Berthold!" Roy charged.

The older man throttled a sound like a growl, a wolf eyeing its prey, his fists taut by his side and shoulders rising and falling in a ripple. Underneath his wild, emerald eyes, his breathing was erratic, and when Roy blinked for a second, his countenance turned downright murderous. All at once, he leaped at Roy, the older man's weight shoving them both to the ground, eliciting gasps from nearby attendees.

"Damn you! That's  _my daughter_  you're messing with!" Berthold roared, pressing his big hands around Roy's neck.

Roy's eyes bulged in shock, flying to the seam of his mouth, "What!  _What the fuck?!_ "

At the ruckus, the familiar figures of Maes Hughes and Jean Havoc rushed in, each snatching their arms and prying them apart. Maes held his wrists securely beneath his grip, while Jean was struggling with the blond man. Berthold was fighting his hold with thrashing arms, his time at the gym paying off by the strain on Jean's expression.

"How many other women are you dating on the side? Huh?" Berthold snarled, his body lunging forward only for Jean to grapple his torso. "Two? Three?"

"What do you mean? It's only her!" Roy rebuked.

"What  _the fuck_  is going on here?" Riza demanded, her booming voice making her exasperation known. The fix of her gaze was frantic, thrown at Roy and Berthold and then Roy again, and she interposed herself between the two, right in the middle.

"You fucking liar!" Berthold sprang at Roy again. "Where's Vanessa and Madeline, huh? Are they here, too?"

"Dad, calm down!" Riza yelled.

A security personnel approached, his tight shirt and towering height and bulging veins urging business and no play. "Ma'am, we can't have this here," he said to Riza, calmly. Pointing at Berthold and Roy, he added, "You both need to leave."

Roy drifted a look around. What a commotion they'd caused. People were murmuring, passing judgments, spreading fire. His hip started to throb - from taking the brunt of his fall, and the burn on his spine licked at his muscles and stung the flat of his back, protruding outward. The clutch on his wrist loosened, however, and Maes stepped away.

"Nothing to see here, people. Move along now," Maes said, ushering away with persistent hands.

Wiping at his mouth, a dab of blood found its way to the back of his hand. The beat of his heart was tenacious, even more so when he dared look up at Berthold. The lawyer still wore the same ferocious mien, and the length of his once short hair fell around his face, shaping the savage mane of a lion. But his temper had been allayed, if only because he was caged by a guard on one side and Jean on the other.

Once outside and away from curious watchers, Berthold's ire returned, on his face, on his mouth, on the clip of his steps. He looked like a beast again. Jean had released him, slowly and warily, and Berthold was determined to keep his hands to himself, though he was still reeling with accusations. He faced his daughter, "This  _asshole_  right here is dating two other girls beside you. Vanessa and Madeline. Who knows how many other ones there are."

"They're my  _sisters_ ," Roy moaned, underlining his word long and slow. "I lied to you, okay? I wanted your help- I needed your connection to get an audition. And you were struggling with your marriage, and I saw a chance to get close to you then," he confessed.

Berthold hesitated, as if trying to wrap his mind around the burst of information, but chose to sneak a peek at his daughter for confirmation.

Riza caught her father's signal. "I met them. They are his sisters."

Then Berthold scrutinized him again, with a glower and a hiss so sharp Roy felt he was cut in half, "So everything you told me was bullshit then?"

Fisting his hair in frustration, Roy groaned, "No. Not all. I wanted to help you get back with your wife."

Softly, Riza said from his side, "Roy, you never told me you knew my dad..."

"I didn't know he was your dad. He kept quiet on a lot of things about himself. This whole time he never even mentioned your name. He talked about a wife but your mom has passed away..." Roy tailed.

From across the pavement, Berthold muttered, "Break up with her."

"What?" The thread of his brows knitted in reproach. "No."

"I won't ask you twice," Berthold warned.

"No. Ask me something else but not that."

"Dad, go home. It's getting late," Riza ordered. "Eva will worry."

Riza seemed to have regained her composure, her posture confident and the way her hand berated firm. But when she turned to Roy and he met her gaze, he supplicated the sky and wished he could turn back time. With a defeated fray along her mouth and a weary etch to her eyes, Riza pled, "Roy, please just… just stay away from me..." And without another glance, she walked away.

Rebecca was quickly at her side, a comforting arm around her shoulders. Her hands made a rubbing motion along the curves of her shoulders, soothing, consoling, and Roy could only watch as his girlfriend shriveled from the cold. Maria and Heymans soon followed, the drummer draping her sweater over Riza's back, and the four soon disappeared into the next block.

Jean's voice broke the silence, and he lifted his hand to give Roy an awkward shrug, "I uh... I drove Rebecca here. Sorry, man. I'll talk to you later."

Behind him, Maes squeezed Roy on the shoulder. "I'm going to head on home, okay? Take it easy and call me if you need anything." Disappointment lined his face just as much as Riza's had, though it was softened by his speech.

A fleeting whisper of feet, and Roy turned to the sound, discovering Berthold retreating. The man proceeded in the opposite direction without so much of a noise.

"Berthold. Berthold, I'm sorry," Roy called out. But Berthold trudged on and said nothing, leaving him alone in the lulling street.

The cusp of spring briefly whisked past his door, her warm breeze caressing his cheeks. A few more weeks and he would have celebrated every season with Riza. His back was pulsing again, his hip, his jaw, and his head. But Roy could only stare down at his feet, the impulse to chase after her died with her plea for distance.

Taking out his key, Roy plodded to his car with leaden limbs, one sluggish step at a time. One broken promise withdrew confidence, and two stripped away trust. Everything simply became an act then, much like what he'd done to Berthold, pretty words woven together to appease a moment.

And Roy knew that he had lost her then.


	9. a silver line that stretches to the sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Adding 1 more chapter for epilogue for a total of 11. Chapter 10 will be posted on Sunday, and the epilogue will be posted the following Wednesday :). Enjoy chapter 9!

**April 2015**

In the first few days, the shock of her departure had smothered his ability to think clearly. Roy Mustang was as good as a zombie, moving about the house and the streets below as his routine took him without much forethought. He slept - or tried to sleep. He ate, without tasting. He went out, if only for business. And when he arrived home at night, he would seek his bed and tumble onto it unceremoniously, his body completely spent and yet mind and heart constantly swarming, still wishing he could rewind time.

Sunday had come around, and the alarm reminder of their weekly brunch date had jolted him at seven in the morning. The diner on Wilshire offered the best steak and eggs, and flaunted a pre-war era decor that transported him back to the Golden Age of Hollywood. But Roy had only remembered her steady company, her dining preferences, and the way the sunlight stumbled over her hair, staining the strands a silverish hue at just the right angle. Riza would peruse the menu with a hard concentration, but Roy knew she would always go back to her favorite blueberry french toast and a glass of mimosa.

That Sunday, he did not go to the diner, but Rebecca had rung his doorbell and insisted on taking Black Hayate with her, giving Roy the slightest hint where Riza was staying before telling him he was banned from visiting her apartment. Without Hayate, his dreary evening walks and all duties regarding the dog were gone. Roy, alone and listless, had found no motivation to roll out of bed and had chosen to stare at the ceiling, drowning in thoughts of her, until a call from his agent jolted him the third time that morning.

"The casting director will be reaching out to you directly!" his agent had exclaimed. "That's a good sign!" And Roy had simply returned the man's excitement with a murmur of gratitude, his mind barely focusing, his ears hearing rather than listening.

At his best friend's urging, Roy had gone to the movie theater two weeks after it all happened. Put some effort to move on, Maes had pressed, and a movie should help. He had grumbled, thrown a muddle of expletives into the conversation, and hurled the phone onto his bed before he even had a chance to hang up. But Roy had dragged himself to the theater, surprised at his own compliance, and browsed through a list of comedy and action, avoiding the offering of sappy and romantic films altogether.

He had settled with  _It Follows_ , a horror flick about a girl who fell victim to a curse via sexual intercourse, believing the premise to be idiotic and comical. Laughter is the best medicine, he had recalled Maes telling him, and truly, Roy had wished this was the case. Instead, he had been tense and scared. He had curled into the corner of his seat, his bag of popcorn completely forgotten, gasping and willing his heart to stop racing while despairingly wishing Riza was there to hold his clammy hand.

In the following week, Roy had attempted to go grocery shopping, contending that he needed to stay healthy and get back the abdominal muscles he was starting to lose. A tiny part of him, however, had muttered that he was bitter, and that he had been craving to show Riza exactly just what she had been missing. Nevertheless, pizza boxes had loitered about the living room, instant noodle cups had sat atop his kitchen counter, and soda cans and beer bottles had adorned his television stand like they belonged there as ornaments.

With plodding limbs and a heavy heart, Roy had staggered out of his house. Sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he reasoned it as a necessary precaution to deceive fans and neighbors alike. He had known, however, that its purpose was to hide the redness in his eyes and the dark circles below his lids from the perpetual sleeplessness and constant weeping at night.

"Here's some baked goods from Gracia," Maes had said, dropping by unannounced one morning. At this, irritation had sharpened his face, and Roy had rudely barked about wedding planning, shoving his friend in the direction of his car before he could say any more. Jean Havoc had called for a visit not long after, but Roy had insisted that he was preoccupied and had no time to spare at all.

At the end of the day, there was never a call from Riza nor Berthold, and Roy Mustang still wished he could turn back time.

But tonight was different. The darkness was quiet and enveloping, without a prickle of light to disturb the peace. It was quite a change from the past several weeks where every other minute suddenly seemed too bright, or something perked his hearing and rang for an interlude, or he was falling off a cliff and never hit bottom. Sleep had left so fast that when he woke, the pulse beneath his chest would roar and the calming effect of damp sweat only made him remember all the things that went wrong.

Tonight was different. He slept for the first time. There was no light, no noise, and no falling off cliffs.

But then he felt movement. A shake. Then his body was jerking left and right as though the ground was trembling underfoot. He saw the cement cracking and splitting beneath.

"Earthquake! Riza, wake up!" Roy cried, panting.

Then the shaking stopped.

"Um... I'm not Riza, and there's no earthquake… I was just trying to wake you up," The voice was strangely male and not at all soft and warm and female like Roy had expected.

Immediately, his eyes shot open. He blinked. "What... the hell...?" The tremor had dissipated, but the room still spun. The curtains slid and rolled away, filling his room with light. Pressing the rounds of his palms against his eyes, he groaned, "Maes...? Is that you?"

"Yup, and it's almost noon so you better get up. Let's get coffee," Maes said.

Roy squinted his direction and came across his best friend's irritating grin that told Roy he wasn't to be turned away. Roy wanted to smack it.

"This is my first good sleep in over a month… so you can go away now," Roy mumbled, sinking his face into his pillow. If he could get his friend to leave him for the day, all would be well again.

"Come on, Roy. I'm not leaving till you wake up."

"Why…"

"You  _know_  why. You've been holed up in your apartment for what five and a half fucking weeks? Your kitchen has flies, your living room is messy. Do you even shower? Because you smell like shit, too," Maes scolded. "And it's Saturday, Roy! It's nice outside! The birds are singing, the grass is green, and the weather's lovely."

His hand reacted in an instant and grabbed for his own pillow, burying his head underneath as though it would block out Maes's rambling. Then Roy heard the creak of Maes's footsteps against the wood floor picking up then retreating, fading into the distance. Slipping his arms under the blanket to his right, Roy found spots that were cold and untouched, and he wanted to cry. The mattress didn't dip and the sheet didn't crease like how they used to, when Riza was sleeping there beside him.

Suddenly, brisk strides pounded against the floor, fast, and the next thing Roy felt was ice on his bare back. His eyes shot open once more, and Roy glared at his friend. "What the fuck, Hughes!"

"Get up, you lazy bum. Stop sulking and get on with your life!" Hughes shouted back, throwing the ice pack onto the bed.

"She hates me. She won't talk to me. My life is over," Roy frowned, his pillow tucked tightly against his chest. His stomach began to churn and his head pulse, and he whined her name as if it would make the affliction go away.

"So fucking dramatic, no wonder you became an actor," Maes sighed. Tossing him a shirt, pants, and a jacket, the garments hitting Roy in the face, Maes ordered, "Go get ready, we're getting coffee."

He rolled against the mattress and swung his legs over the bedside. "Might as well get lunch. You said it's almost noon..." Then he peeked at the digital clock atop his nightstand, a scowl lining his mouth as he realized it was two hours sooner than his friend's claim. "Wow, fuck you, dude. It's only ten."

"Yes, and I haven't seen you for a month. Now, get up!"

The shower felt like a stream of sunshine and, when remorse started to swirl in his head again, Roy twisted the valve so it was now positioned at the coldest level. It was spring, but remnants of winter lingered throughout the week, making his apartment cold and the water even colder. At times it was so cold it felt like the flurry in the East Coast he heard so much about. He had never been, but he could imagine. And imagine he did, everyday, swaying to the musical prowess of Paul McCartney in Philadelphia come June, with Riza by his side. Except he realized now that wouldn't happen.

Roy knew he shouldn't let his emotions overtake, but today was exceptionally trying, with one too many things on his mind. The jacket Maes had tossed him was the one Riza had bought for his birthday last year. Looking at it stole his breath, and his chest soared and fell so rapidly he felt asthmatic.

Wrapped in a silver box, Riza had smiled and proffered it to him, exclaiming "happy birthday!" He ripped it open, and a book titled "How to be a Better Actor 101" winked at him from the inside. Dignity assailed and pride chafed, Roy had pouted, but Riza laughed instead, hands over her stomach and torso doubled over. But when he looked up next, she handed him the  _real_  gift - a thin leather jacket he had tried on and joked how sexy it had made him look. Frown turned into a grin, a grin turned into an embrace, until finally it blossomed into a kiss.

He missed Riza. He missed her a lot.

"Ah, you smell much better now," Maes remarked with a slight sneer as Roy emerged from the bathroom.

"Shouldn't you be planning your wedding with Gracia?" Roy countered, swiping his house key from the hook across the front door.

Maes chuckled, "Yeah probably, but I can't let you rot in this dank apartment all alone now, can I? What are friends for?"

"Friends don't let friends wear the jacket their ex-girlfriends gave them," he hissed without a second thought, though it was only spoken to stir a reaction rather than anything else.

His friend grimaced, his tongue caught between his teeth. "Oh shit, did I do that? Sorry man, I didn't know."

Running his fingers through wet locks, Roy moaned, "Sorry Maes, I didn't mean to say it like that. I'm just… you know..."

"Yeah, I know," Hughes sighed, guiding him by the elbow to cross the street towards the nearest coffee shop. Only after they'd entered the store did his friend ask, "Is she still not answering your calls?"

"Nope," Roy shook his head, expelling air through his mouth at the sight of a long line.

"She's still mad about the thing with you and her dad?"

"No. It's the thing with me not showing up… and not meeting her stepmom. All in the same day."

Maes turned to him, fists on his hips. "How the hell did you make her dad think you're dating other girls?"

"It's kind of a long story... but I took him to my sisters' hair stylist, and she asked how Vanessa and Madeline are doing. Berthold assumed they're my girlfriends, and I never corrected him."

"Okay, and I think you're stupid for playing along the way you did," Hughes remarked softly, with the sensible air of an older brother, then he tilted his gaze to the menu board. "What do you want, Roy? My treat, before you haul ass to Prague."

"Just... give me an iced coffee." But he still felt his friend's eyes on him, trailing, as if there was more he wanted to say but didn't. "What?" Roy broached.

Warily, Maes asked, "Does she know?"

"Know what?"

"About you leaving."

The casting director had phoned and beamed in his ears about his starring role alongside a young actress who had recently made a name for herself. Roy had voiced his acceptance without flourish, his thoughts elsewhere, even when the director was relentlessly spouting the potential acclaim the film would receive.

"No. She knew I auditioned, but she doesn't know I got the part. I got the call after everything happened."

Maes nodded in acknowledgment, and the mercy of silence visited once more. The long line was moving at a snail's pace, feet barely shifting and chatters growing, but when Roy threw a glance over his shoulder to see how long the line had gotten, the man behind him whispered.

"Roy Mustang?" Surprise lined his smooth and confident voice.

The first thing that crossed Roy's mind was to lie, reject his claim with a firm 'no' and a shake of his head; he simply had no energy to spare for a conversation concerning his work. But Roy realized too little too late as he idled in the man's direction, ambushed by his own surprise.

"Do you remember me?" the man asked. And that was not at all what Roy expected to hear.

Above the captivating glint of the man's dark eyes was a muss of tawny-brown hair, styled similarly to Roy's own, wispy bangs softening the curve of his strong jawline. The man was taller than he was, broad chest sculpting a robust torso, with a black leather jacket that 50's rock stars often wore hanging over one side of his shoulder.

"You look familiar," Roy mused. "Have we met?"

The man laughed. "We were on the same episode on Good Morning America. I performed my new song right after they finished with your interview. You ran out right after though, didn't give me a chance to say hi." He extended his hand. "My name is Claudio Rico."

Rather than associating his name with the talk show or his new song, however, all Roy could remember was his girlfriend and the fleeting mention of a Claudio Rico when they spoke about past romances.

"Oh. You're Riza's ex," Roy blurted out, taking his hand. Beside him, he could hear Maes's curious mumbling.

"Well," Claudio chuckled, a hand smoothing the back of his head, "that's not exactly what I was expecting to hear, but I dated a woman named Riza once. How did you know?"

"She's  _my_  girlfriend," Roy replied, a tad sharper than he'd like, as if the musician had been there to snatch her away from him. "Her name is Riza Hawkeye."

Claudio shrugged with a rueful smile, "Yeah, that's her. No hard feelings, man. We dated briefly, nothing serious. She's a great person though, and a damn good songwriter."

At this, the tide of hostility receded, and Roy averted a bashful gaze at his unrestrained bite. "Yeah. Yeah, she is."

In a few moments of discomfort, Roy clung his gaze to a nearby rack, shuffled his feet, and stuffed his hands into his pockets, feigning interest in the purchase of coffee beans. Claudio was unabated, however, and proceeded to ask seemingly with the intent of a caring friend, "How is she doing? Does she still write music? She used to help me with mine. And does she still sing, too?"

"Yeah, everyday," Roy answered, recalling the little hums that would climb up her throat each time she propped a guitar on her lap. "Singing and writing."

"And her attempt at learning the drum?" Claudio quipped.

"She's still terrible, even with weekly practice. I never quite understood that," Roy smiled amiably, and fond memories plagued him once again, calling forth an image of his girlfriend behind Maria's drum set, expression hardened and hands clumsy.

A loud harrumph from Maes, and Roy stepped back in surprise. Tapping his friend's shoulder apologetically, Roy said, sheepishly, "Claudio, this is my good friend Maes. And Maes, this is Claudio."

"Nice to meet you," Maes said. "Riza's ex, huh?" And Roy didn't miss the tiny smirk that teased the corner of his friend's mouth.

"Nice to meet you too, Maes. And say hi to Riza for me, will you Roy?" Claudio smiled, pointing to the cashier. "You're next."

Maes stepped forward, placing an order for two iced coffees and adding a breakfast sandwich for Roy, urging his friend to eat more if he didn't want to lose his upcoming role to another at the rate he was losing weight. Then Maes spoke of music and Claudio Rico and coincidences, and recalled that Roy and Riza's first meeting had been purely serendipitous, like  _Sleepless in Seattle_  or  _Singin' in the Rain_.

"What are the chances of that, right?" Maes said in a kind of dreamy stupor. He could always count on hopeless romantic Maes to stir up a beautiful tale out of a recent tragedy.

"Yeah, what are the chances," Roy murmured.

"She must be unforgettable for him to be so curious like that."

Roy nodded in reflex.

"Even if her skill with the drums is questionable," Maes continued, laughing.

"Right."

"I liked Riza. She's kind and caring, determined, and definitely intriguing. She could stand your appalling jokes too, and she's got some of the nicest racks - oh man, I sound like Jean Havoc just now," Maes snickered, cupping his hands against his chest to conjure an image of heavy breasts.

Roy fixed him a narrow, contemptuous glare.

"I'm just kidding about the racks. Anyways, no worries, my friend. I'm sure you'll find someone else in no time, what with your angular jawline and big arms and toned abs and all," his friend joked, elbowing him on his side in an attempt at lightheartedness.

But that was precisely it. Roy didn't want someone else. It was either Riza Hawkeye or nobody at all, at least not as far as he was concerned in the here and now. The idea of filming in Prague had been marvelous - a dream come true - but it would have been simply that. An idea. And none of it would have happened if Riza hadn't been there to push him.

Too often Roy had wanted to refuse another audition, and too often he'd bundled up under his blanket and spoken to no one when a rejection burned too hot and too fast. But Riza understood him, if only because she'd experienced it all too well herself.

From there she would wheedle with movie dates and popcorn, slipping out comments about the actor or a particularly moving scene that would spark his fire again. Sometimes she would read his part with him, until every word had sunk in and he became the character within the pages. If that hadn't worked, she would offer an arsenal of lascivious things he wouldn't be able to resist, and in turn, she'd made him promise to attend the casting call.

Riza Hawkeye was with him every step of the way, and for her, Roy wanted to do just the same.

His chair wailed below him, and Roy sprang swiftly but remained standing still, letting his plan sink in, weaving the words to say. The pulse on his neck began to pick up, reaching his ears in quick, steady thumps, but his mind was as clear as the sky outside, blue and cloudless and inspiring. He threw his friend a smile, and took the last sip of his coffee.

"Roy? What are you doing?" Maes asked, confused.

"Sorry Maes... but I gotta go see about a girl."

* * *

 

Her enormous childhood home atop Hollywood Hills was the same as Riza remembered it eight months ago. The white marble floor was gleaming underneath a skylight that allowed a jet of sunshine to stream through, reflecting a generous shade of the deep forest green blouse she wore. The grand foyer was warm and elegant as it always was, with fresh flowers upon entry, though the Greco pillars of the roaring twenties mansion that had once belonged to a media magnate still held markings of a little girl who grew too rapidly within those walls.

To her left was one of the two living rooms that seemed to be unoccupied, the space cold and the furniture undisturbed. Then she stalked the other one farther west, beyond the mosaic-glass divider that separated the two large, open spaces.

Once there, she noticed a glaring difference since she last visited in July. Her stepmother's favorite crocheted throw was draped along the sofa cushion. Two pairs of furry-lined slippers were messily strewn about the floor, and a couple glasses of leftover wine and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn decorated the usually bare tabletop, indicating a movie night the previous day.

Her father emerged from the echoes of the hallway, a taut line to his jaw. Berthold Hawkeye approached her, slowly, his gait weary yet his expression welcoming. She would run to hug him, but physical affection was rarely in the employ of the hardened lawyer.

"Elizabeth... I know we haven't always seen eye to eye-" Berthold began.

"Dad, it's fine. We've talked about this," Riza appeased, albeit curtly, raising a hand to silence him. She curled a hesitant smile to soften the blow. "I talked to Eva - plenty of times - before I came. I needed to know what I was getting myself into, and now I've made my decision."

"Of course."

"It will take some time for me to… trust you again," Riza murmured, "but I suppose that's where you come in."

"I understand... And I will say it again-" he swallowed, as if his nerves had risen up and needed to be shoved down once more, "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I wish I had been a better father to you."

Riza nodded, but she would let time prove his words, and until then she would keep her assent to herself. The barrier between them was thick, cemented by harsh words of disapproval and unceasing criticism, and it would take more than an apology before it could crumble. Dropping her duffle bag to the floor, she eyed her father, who chose to fill the contemplative silence by running his fingers through his growing blond hair, repentance swelling around him.

Roy had done wonders to Berthold's appearance, earning the man ten years of his age back. Now, she could see his expression fully, the misty sheen of his eyes when he saw her again the following day after The Echo, and the way the sharp bones of his cheeks trembled when he offered her his sincere apology, begging her for a reconciliation.

"How is... Roy?" Berthold asked, a caution to his tone. "Is he… doing okay?"

Flicking a timid gaze towards the floor, she answered, "Good…. I think."

"You think?" Berthold inquired. "Riza, I thought I told you that I spoke out of turn. You can date whoever you want. You're capable of making that decision for yourself."

"No, I know… but I mean... I haven't spoken to him for weeks, and honestly, I don't know where to start," she confessed. "Have  _you_  spoken to him since?"

For a time all her father could do was stare, the line of his mouth thinning and rounding, as though he wanted to say something but couldn't. And then a little sigh left him, "Not yet, but he's been messaging and calling me. It's just... my pride's a little bruised. But don't worry, I'll talk to him eventually."

Riza herself found her circumstance to be the same. There was so much to say to Roy, yet the uncertainty of where to begin overwhelmed her until all she could do each time he called or texted was to avert her eyes and focus on the task at hand. But every night, when sleep did not come and she was alone with her mind, Riza would catch herself thinking about him, wondering about his well being and whether or not she'd ever summon up the courage to speak to him again.

"How are you… and Eva?" Riza asked instead. There would be time for Roy to enter her mind later.

"It's going to take some time..." Berthold muttered, "but we're both trying our best, and we're starting it by spending more time with each other. We watched  _Gone Girl_  last night…"

"I know. I saw your popcorn. And I'm glad," she smirked. "Eva seems pretty happy recently."

"I'm taking her on a date tomorrow, to Venice Beach, and I have a few things planned," he admitted sheepishly, his complexion coloring slightly. "Ah but never mind that. I'm sure she will tell you all about it tomorrow."

"And where is Eva now?"

"In the kitchen, baking something for our guests."

There had been much to consider since The Echo. Desmond Miles of Dreamnation Records had been thoroughly impressed by her and the music she'd composed that he had requested a live recording session as soon as she was available. At her wary acceptance, the man with striking red eyes had clapped her on the shoulder and brought her into his studio the very next day.

Everything had happened so fast - the praises they showered and the completion of her recording - that all Riza had allowed herself was the thought of a possible record deal, along with the uncontrolled excitement she was able to conceal within a stony countenance.

Maria Ross and Heymans Breda never wanted to pursue a professional career in music. Only a hobby, they had said, and hobbies should never be mixed with financial gains. This had rung true to an extent, but Riza Hawkeye could never pour her time and her soul into another craft. Music had enchanted her, and she never wanted to wake up from it. They had offered to play with Riza every now and again, and joked that the two would keep her sane amidst her soon-to-be blossoming career.

After a stretch of silence, Berthold proceeded to creep closer and removed their distance. The embrace she never thought she would receive arrived just as suddenly as the surprise that left her mouth, "Wha-" Her eyes widened, and it took her a few seconds to thaw out of her frozen state before she could manage to hug him back.

Her father muttered in her hair, his voice trembling, "I just want to say that... you were wonderful on stage, Elizabeth. And as your father... I am very proud of you."

The barrier in her chest began to crack at his proclamation, and for the first time in years, Riza could see the rest of it collapsing, little by little, day by day. A swirl of heat quickly overtook, rising from the depth of her stomach to the cavity behind her eyes. She pressed her eyelids together, hard, and when she opened them, the view of the world was jagged, as if she'd seen it through a broken glass. Then a tear rolled down her cheek, hot and unbidden.

She sniffed, and Berthold's breath caught with a gasp. He drew back and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong, Elizabeth?"

Hastily, Riza wiped at her cheek, embarrassed. With a lopsided smile and strained laughter, she panted, "Nothing, dad. I'm just… a little caught off guard is all."

Berthold smirked, chuckling lightheartedly, "Are you ready to meet your guests? Or do you need a minute?"

The cushion of her palm met her eyes, and she dabbed it haphazardly until no traces of crying was left. It wouldn't do to look like this in front of them. The shudder along her shoulders and arms started to ease, her breathing slowing down, though she felt her heartbeat rising up again at the thought of what awaited.

Looking up at her father, Riza finally drifted the softest smile and nodded, "Okay. I'm ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: +5 points to Gryffindor if you can pick out the quote from Good Will Hunting - it's an excellent movie, by the way. 2 more chapters left.


	10. city of stars, are you shining just for me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Posting a day early. Thank you so much waddiwasiwitch for reading through this chapter and giving me your input! :)

The two-story apartment building on Riverside Drive glared at him from across the street, making his knees wobble. The narrow strips of windows were like its eyes, the white double doors its teeth -  _bared_ , and for a moment, Roy likened the menacing exterior to its tempestuous renter Rebecca Catalina. He grimaced at the thought.

The last time Roy had been here the facade was beige all around, a shade darker around the top unit, as if the paint there had been restored more recently than others. For a short time that was how he had identified Riza's room, and he would invite his girlfriend down with pebbles, avoiding a roommate who always seemed to cast a skeptical look every time he visited. Now it was a dusky grey, and Roy idled on the pavement with a thin gaze up to the second floor window, ascertaining if it was indeed her room.

With a resigned sigh, Roy threw his hands up in the air and proceeded to bury them in his jeans pockets, climbing the porch and worming up the stairs with his feet a puddle beneath him. As he neared Rebecca's unit, he heard a muted bark, followed by a scolding hush. The churning in his stomach redoubled, the quickening of his heart pulling him to an abrupt stop. He knew he would find Riza there, but he bade his time and crept along the wall, creating distance between him and the door.

Shaking off the tension from his limbs, he wished himself good luck and laid his forefinger on the doorbell, solidifying the delivery of his speech in his head. He was deathly terrified of her rejection - more so of the possibility of truly losing her - but he pressed, and it rang. When he heard no answer, he rang again. Again, and again, and again. Just as he had done before to incite a reaction from Riza's irritable roommate.

Not a few seconds later he heard Rebecca's brisk footfalls, certain now that the brunette had realized who was at the door. When she cracked the door half-open, her face was scrunched up in contempt, her dark eyes so sharp it could cut stones.

"Jesus fuck, Roy, what the hell do you want?" she snarled.

"Can I see Riza please?" Roy asked, his gaze pleading, willing his body to join in the camaraderie.

"Nope," her roommate replied tersely and proceeded to slam the door in his face.

It was as if he'd seen it coming, and Roy took this chance to slip both arms into the crevice, catching Rebecca by surprise. He sensed a blunt ache beneath his skin, pulsing. "Please?" Roy begged, a tiny whimper from the pain sneaking out of his throat. It made him sound pitiful. "I just need to talk to her for five minutes, then I'll be on my way. Please?"

Irritation billowed in the air as she scowled at him, but Roy could tell her eyes softened in the slightest. "She's not here," Rebecca insisted, though her acute tone had faded, her fiercely protective demeanor waning as she dawdled by the door.

"Ple-"

"She's at her dad's," she finished smoothly, a piece of paper caught between her fingers. She extended it to him. "She moved back home this morning."

"I see you were planning on letting me know where she is anyway," Roy smirked, snatching the address to Berthold Hawkeye's home.

Rebecca merely scoffed. But in deep gratitude Roy shoved the door open, startling the brunette, and grasped both of her hands in his, suppressing the urge to pull her into a hug only because he knew she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. He shook them instead, firmly, "Thank you, Rebecca. Really."

"Don't let me regret this," she warned and yanked her hands away, closing the door with a thrust.

Roy jumped into his car and sped along the highway. He drilled the apology into his head as if it was the most important lines of his life, mouthing the words over the revving of engine, all the while wiping off the streaks of sweat that crawled along his palms.

* * *

 

Four men in suits sat around the oval table in Berthold Hawkeye's office. Riza didn't recognize three of the four, who were perching with utmost reverence like they were praying, quiet and spine upright with hands clasped on the table, a black binder before them. The fourth person was Desmond Miles, the man's broad smile following her as she took the seat between him and her father, whose casual dress shirt and slacks were a stark contrast to the other men.

Berthold faced the three men with the binder. "I will be representing Elizabeth Hawkeye in this negotiation. The agreements, including release commitment and creative control, will be reviewed before signing. Please strike out any changes and initial all corrections." Then he faced Miles, a glimpse of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, "Now, I've worked with you in the past and you're aware of how I do things-" the table gave a small, hearty laugh, "so you know better than to mess with my daughter."

Amused, Miles laughed along and turned to Riza, "Before we begin, I just want to say that I was thoroughly impressed by Miss Hawkeye and her music, and I look forward to us working together."

At his compliment, her wavering, little smile grew and tendrils of heat rose up her cheeks. She cleared her throat, willing her nervousness to abate, "And I just want to add that... I like to keep a tight rein on all of my songs. Any proposed changes will have to go through me first..."

"Understood," Miles said without hesitation, as if he'd heard just enough and had built his trust around her materials. "As your producer, I'll provide input and we can discuss ideas, but-" he smiled openly, "we all have heard your live  _and_  your demo, and I have a good feeling you'll do just fine."

After years of rejection, it felt good to be acknowledged. Desmond Miles did not demand her appearance primped and dolled up, nor her hair curled or cut. He did not propose revisions to her lyrics nor composition but gave them glowing praise. The producer was so confident with his endorsement that her own undulating confidence finally surged and settled. It made her feel warm and giddy, and in the delight, she wondered fleetingly what her mother would think of it all. Would she be proud of her?

One of the three men finally spoke, "Okay, let's move on to distribution and promotion, and then online streaming - Spotify and Apple Music and things of that nature. We can discuss management and money last."

"My contact at Focus Features is looking for a soundtrack for their upcoming indie film, and I was thinking about sending one of Riza's tracks-"

"Well there's also that new pilot show on NBC," another chimed in.

Her eyes danced between the three men, volleying back and forth in an attempt to absorb the discussion. She felt like a spectator, sidelined by her scarce knowledge of the music industry.

Miles effectively cut them off with a raise of his hand, and he turned to her, "Riza, what do you think?"

"Well, I think-" she started to speak.

"Keep in mind, Miss Hawkeye, that we're not distributing to stores, and any chance at-"

"Let her speak," Berthold protested, his tone taking offense on her behalf.

All eyes were on her in an instant, and the room dimmed into silence.

"Riza?" Miles encouraged, floating a small smile her way.

And Riza felt emboldened, if not for Miles's reassurance then her father's commanding presence. "I'd like to know what the film or the series is about first, but I am open."

The conversation about finances took the longest, and it continued for forty-five minutes before Miles moved it along onto the next topic. Berthold the lawyer was on top of everything, questioning every motive and perusing the words in her contract to the minute detail. This allowed her to drift her thoughts to Roy and the unexpected predicament they had regrettably fallen into. Roy was still clueless of her situation, but what would he have to say the moment she signed her name and gave her life away?

A myriad of emotions gathered, and the past several weeks of reflecting and conversing with her stepmother flooded her at once. Eva Hawkeye had viewed life as a string of opportunities, knocking at our doors at all times of the day, and believed that the most important ones would always incite the greatest fear.

With a reeling mind and trembling hands, Riza had spoken of her love for music, recording deals, and what it meant to navigate this path. She had also spoken of the challenges and the cost of pursuing it. Eva Hawkeye had listened, carefully, and with a smile she had said, "Every opportunity has a timeline, and it will not come twice." And Riza knew what she had to do.

At the end of the meeting, Miles presented her with a list of items to complete within the next few weeks. The agreements had finally been signed, her time no longer her own to control, and Riza Hawkeye found herself dedicating the next twelve months to composing, recording, and touring with Dreamnation Records. Briefly, she closed her eyes, calming her heartbeat and letting everything sink in, and in the dark she heard the footsteps of the men in suits receding down the hall.

Everything had been surreal, and a part of her was afraid that the moment she opened her eyes, all would disappear and she'd find herself back at her apartment, no recording deal and still ruthlessly tied to her dead end coffee shop job.

"Riza?"

She opened her eyes. Berthold's office remained, and her vision found her father filing away her contract and Desmond Miles staring at her with an amused grin.

Rising from his chair, Miles offered his hand, "Looking forward to working with you, Miss Hawkeye."

She stood and clasped his hand, grateful, "Same to you, Mr. Miles."

"And please tell your boyfriend thank you for the invitation to watch you perform. Without him, I'd probably still be going around the city looking for the next big talent," he chuckled.

"Of course," Riza smiled.

Miles stalked towards the door just as soon as she nodded, leaving her alone with her father once more. She pushed in her chair and paced about the office with a restlessness, dragging a wooden gait to the floor-to-ceiling window, losing herself in dark thoughts rather than admiring the view beyond the glass. Elation lingered, but it was quickly replaced by splashes of guilt, rising above her and raining her down with dread.

"What's wrong, Elizabeth?" Berthold inquired. "Did you have any questions about the meeting?"

"No, it's not that..." Riza trailed. "It's just… I think-"

"It's Roy, isn't it?" her father interrupted gently, and she looked up. He had seen through her. "He would talk about you, you know…. Not all the time, but sometimes. He would always brag that my girlfriend wrote this, or she sang that." Then Berthold scoffed and laughed, ruefully, shaking his head, "And everytime I would ask, which girlfriend is this?"

Turning towards her father, she conveyed her fear with a desperate tinge, "You saw that schedule, right? It doesn't seem to leave much room for… anything else..."

"That's how it usually is, especially in the beginning," Berthold affirmed.

"But what about… Roy?"

"That's something the two of you will have to work out."

Riza Hawkeye rarely entertained thoughts of separation, and it had only come when she sat in the quiet of their room and strained hard to compose a song. Roy had avoided it completely, too wound up in the idea of them and in the comfort of her presence. Nonetheless, both never faltered in pushing each other to the top, speaking of dreams and a bright future without mentioning the implications. Now that they both had reached the top, what would happen from here on out?

Two knocks, and the door to Berthold's office creaked open.

"Riza?" Eva nudged her head in, scanning the room for her. "Roy's outside for you."

* * *

 

The paved, private road to Berthold's mansion was almost as long-winded as the speech he had prepared. Roy had been afraid he would be turned away upon reaching the security booth, but when Eva Hawkeye granted entry, the path cleared, and he was back to reciting his apology as he pulled up to the manicured driveway.

Standing on the Hawkeye porch, Roy found his hands shaking and his mind racing a mile a minute. But he barely had the chance to press the buzzer when Riza's stepmother swung the door open, wide and welcoming.

She smiled, "Roy, right?" He nodded. "I'm Eva, nice to  _finally_  meet you."

"Nice to meet you too."

Then she ushered him in. "Come in."

"Actually, Mrs. Hawkeye, I'd rather wait out here if you don't mind," Roy said.

It took Eva a second to ponder his request, but she consented and hurried inside, leaving the door ajar for Roy to gobble up the grandeur of their home. Riza Hawkeye was modest and humble, and Roy had a difficult time associating her character and personality with what was presented in front of him. Rebecca had no issue with spilling Riza's little secret, however. The brunette would randomly mention odd tidbits about her background and family that would prompt Roy to tilt his head in wonder.

All thoughts of wealth and family secrets instantly vanished when he saw her. A smattering of red tugged on her cheeks and her neck, and her chest inflated then deflated visibly, as though she had spent the last five minutes running up and down the stairs. But it was as if he was seeing her for the very first time, a cascade of golden hair softening the rosy swell of her lips, seducing him with the rich brown of her eyes that urged him to  _look_. Roy looked, and she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Riza was quiet at first, a hand above her breasts to calm her breathing. Then gently, she clicked the front door to a close and ventured a step towards him, a stray hand reaching to tuck loose strands behind her ear. "Roy… let's talk in the garden?"

Without a word he nodded, and she took his hand with the reluctance of a woman on a first date. If she was angry, Roy couldn't tell, but he clasped her hand tightly beneath his, retracing the line of her calluses and relishing in the warmth and softness of what he'd been missing. They reached the center of the garden, with circular, knee-height hedges neatly trimmed around a wooden bench. Riza sat first and then patted the vacancy beside her.

They lost their voices for a moment, to the songs of the finches, to the scent and the curls of the white star jasmine crawling up the trellises affixed to one side of the house. All was well then, an even respiration beneath his damp shirt and a crystal mind that memorized the length of his practiced words. But Riza eventually pivoted towards him, both of her hands entwined.

"I signed the agreement," she announced, her steady voice belying any excitement or fear.

His eyes beamed, and he let his mirth show through his tone, "That's great, Riza! I'm happy for you." He lifted his elbow to rest on the plank of the bench, twisting his body towards her so that he could watch her in the entirety.

"I have a few months to record and master what I have, and then afterwards I get to dabble with new stuff."

"Have you told Heymans and Maria?"

"Not yet, but that means they'll have to find a new singer for the band. I hope they won't be taking it too hard," she chuckled, though there was a pinch of sadness in her laughter.

"They know this is coming. I'm sure they're already putting up ads for a new singer," Roy quipped.

Riza shook her head and widened her eyes, as if incredulous, "This is great and all, don't get me wrong, but I skimmed through the schedule… and let's just say it looked  _very_  intimidating. I'm not sure how I can do it."

"Remember when I told you that about mine? I think I almost passed out when I saw how long filming each episode would take. But if I can do it, you can too."

She laughed amiably, as though his hectic days had become a fond memory, "Yeah, and you were  _seriously_  busy."

"Riza..." he ventured, diffident, and slid closer until their bodies were merely inches apart. He didn't touch her - or didn't know if he should - but he stared at her profile long enough until she turned towards him.

"Riza, I want to say I'm sorry. I know I say it so often and you said it doesn't mean anything anymore, but I truly  _am_  sorry. I've been a terrible boyfriend, and I just-" he lost the words when she brushed his hand with hers, stroking uneven lines across the back, as if encouraging him. Instead, her gesture stole everything right out of his mouth. "I just uh, want to say-"

Softly, she interrupted, "Roy, I've been unfair to you." His eyes crinkled in surprise, but she continued, holding his hand beneath hers, knitting their fingers together, "I didn't pick up your calls because I needed time to myself. I needed time to think and to sort things out… with my dad, with the record deal, with you, and everything. I'm sorry."

"You're not… mad at me?"

"Oh I was," she affirmed. "I was mad at you because you promised you would be there."

Roy murmured, "And I regretted not being there..."

"But-" she countered, raising a finger. "Not that I condone you doing things behind my back...  _but_  if you hadn't invited my dad and Miles, I wouldn't be where I am right now," she huffed. But then a smile reached her, and this time the delight was effortless, as if whatever consumed her before was finally lifted. "So, do you accept my apology?"

He paused for a time, pondering her confession, sensing his own guilt lifting and then bloating again at the thought of Prague. He fastened their grip, "Yes, and do you accept mine?"

"Yes. Apology accepted," she nodded.

"Riza?" And she swiftly offered a curious gaze that raised the hairs on his arms. He felt trepidation building up, swallowing him little by little. "You know how you said... I've been busy?"

"Yes," she answered, though it sounded more like a question.

"I don't think that... is going to go away anytime soon..."

"Oh?" She raised a brow, gingerly pulling her hand out of his clutch.

Roy wanted to avert his gaze, believing it would be easier to convey without looking directly into brown eyes that were so intimate and expectant. But he didn't, and instead took a deep, sobering breath and exhaled, steadily, "They finished reviewing the screen tests… and they called me. I got the part, Riza, and I'm leaving for Prague in three weeks. I'm going to be there for a few months before heading to Munich right after..."

She tugged on her lips with her teeth and darted her eyes to the ground, as if taking it all in, "I see. It's what you've always wanted. You should be happy."

"Yeah," he sighed, "but…"

"But?"

"Come with me?" Roy implored, eyes pleading, bringing her hand into his again. "You can sing and write on the road. Bring your guitar," he offered. "You said you've always wanted to visit Prague, right? We can walk along the Charles Bridge and go to Prague Castle. I'll make time in between shoots so I can show you around."

She wetted her lips, and opened with an unsteady breath, "Roy… I can't..."

"Why not?" he pressed.

"You won't be the only one on the road, Roy… They're already looking into tour dates and discussing some out of state music festivals in the summer, and the rest of my time will be spent writing and recording... I mean, they essentially own me, right?" she quipped, though her tone was somber. Then she eluded his plea and pinned her stare to the tiny gravels underfoot.

"I'm sure we can work something out…" he suggested.

"Like what?"

"Like… we visit each other on our days off, and then we call each other everyday until then… You can attend premieres with me, and I'll go to your concerts..."

She looked up at him, curling her mouth woefully, "Wouldn't that be nice… but if you couldn't even show up to a... a local concert with your schedule now, I can't begin to imagine when you're even more busy…"

Thoughts of the inevitable stung like a swarm of bees, shooting a hot flare of frustration up his chest and into his throat, and Roy had to wrestle the urge to scream. He had seen it coming - the impossibility of romance amidst a complicated schedule and distance apart - but he had refused to partake in the appalling prospect. The nightmare of their separation from the past weeks swelled again, heavy on his mind and collecting into a pool of sweat beneath jittery hands, but this time it was real.

Then he stole a glimpse of Riza, remembering her aspiration and her zeal and what she had gone through to get to where she was, and the last thing Roy wanted to do was wedge himself between her and her career. He drew in a long breath, arresting it, and blew slowly through his mouth. Soon, the fire in his chest dwindled and departed along with it, his eyes softening. Her dream had finally become a reality, and just as he had pursued his, he wanted her to pursue it with the same vigor and without encumbrance.

Their time together had come to an end, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"So I guess this is it, huh?" he rasped, holding back tears, digging sharp elbows into his knees.

She kept to herself for a moment, considering, then she asked softly, "Tell me. What do you see?"

In defeat, his gaze rose to meet hers. "What do you mean?"

"I see myself taking morning walks on Sunset Boulevard, admiring the sunrise and the quiet street. Then I would go back home and write songs about it. And then I would sing it, and share it with everyone who would appreciate it… Hayate sleeps on the foot of my bed every night, and then on Sundays-" she paused, smoothing her quivering voice, "on Sundays... I would continue our brunch tradition at the diner on Wilshire."

Roy stared at her, still and quiet, and she chuckled feebly and asked, "What's yours?"

A faint laughter slowly bubbled and escaped, and Roy recalled the day they met, insisting the pretty blonde to play along his silly little game.

"I suppose…" he began, "I suppose I see myself filming in Prague, meeting new people and taking some time to stroll along the streets. I see myself attending the premiere at Sundance, and I would sit in the back of the theater, observing the guests. Then I would hear someone sniff... and see another wiping their eyes… and I would tell myself a job well done." He shared a wistful gaze with her, and added, "And then every night when I get home from work, I would tune in to the radio and wait for your songs to play."

"That sounds wonderful," Riza smiled, her lips trembling and eyes glossy. Just like his.

"I just want to say... thank you," Roy added, "for putting up with me. I know that couldn't have been easy."

"No, you weren't easy," she chuckled, touching the corner of her teary eye, "but I'm not exactly the easiest person to deal with either."

"Oh I don't know..." he sniffed, straining not to blink so the tears wouldn't drop. "I kinda liked the challenge, especially when you get  _really_  angry. It's pretty hot," he elbowed her suggestively, chortling, and she burst into laughter.

He laughed along, blinking hard, and caring little now that his cheeks were moist and stained. As long as she was happy.

As she came down, Roy lifted her chin with a gentle finger, memorizing the delicate lines of her expression, following the path of her glee - the glimmer in her eyes, the crinkle on her nose, the upward curve of her mouth. Catching his hand, Riza then drew him into an embrace, flavored with love, longing, hope, and everything in between, and whispered in his ear, "Thank you for everything."

Roy pulled back and curved a silly grin, claiming she owed him a nice, expensive meal for all the things he'd done the next time he saw her in town. At this, she crossed her arms and huffed the other way, refusing his demand and insisting she owed him nothing. He cackled and nudged her lightly, goading, but when she faced him again her lips had blossomed into a smile, warm and genuine, and Roy knew the image would remain with him for the years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Epilogue incoming.


	11. unsigned letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Original lyrics to _Unsigned Letter_ belongs to my friend, with minor additions and modifications by yours truly. A Passing Housewife, I hope this ending is to your liking :). Enjoy the epilogue!

**Los Angeles, September 2019 - Four Years Later**

The sun fell behind one of the skyscrapers, embracing parts of the city in shadows and setting the hazy sky on fire before night would completely take over. Another day had passed, and only two more until Roy Mustang had to depart for an interview in New York City.

The actor cued his exit with the convenient excuse of a previously arranged family dinner. He slipped out of the oval room, gliding his way out across the carpeted corridor with agile steps. The excuse was believable, and it was not an utter lie. He  _had_  promised Aunt Chris a visit, though it would still be another five hours until The Christmas Tavern closed for the night, and six until his aunt was available to welcome him home.

But Roy couldn't afford another minute being trapped between the tedium of showbiz conversation and a strong gust of AC. The insatiable investors and the disagreeable temperature grated on his nerves, bringing him back to the memory filming in Iceland. His character, a stranded journalist stripped down to a pair of boxers and an undershirt, knelt before a tribunal of a lost city elders, the snowy range of the Andes behind him. Iceland had been bone-freezing cold, and the two directors had fought over the perfect sunset shot. There had been little to be desired from the experience.

The tips of his sneakers found purchase on the curb of Hollywood Boulevard, the evening barely beginning with lampposts gradually switched on to illuminate the pavement below. The Friday streets still carried a business crowd, men and women in suits with brisk, purposeful steps, and much less of the meandering, starstruck tourists that Roy remembered from his time living in Los Angeles.

Vanessa's engagement party could not have been planned at a better time. It provided him a reason to stay in town another night, and tomorrow's forecast would be light and breezy like it was now, pleasant for her big day. The stagnant heat of summer had sizzled and flitted away, coaxing the autumn breeze to come and remain. It had been two years since he had returned and stayed for longer than a week, and Roy was desperate for a reprieve from his grueling back-to-back appointments.

With a leisurely gait, he strolled past a coffee shop on Highland Avenue, passing by a row of large movie posters. If he had looked closely, he would have noticed that it was for his upcoming film  _Under the Faraway Sky_ , a drama-mystery involving the disappearance of children in a small town in the midwest. His character was a detective and recuperating father who had lost his daughter to a debilitating illness, and it had become one of his toughest role yet. Roy, however, chose to breathe in the fragrance of the city instead, bacon-wrapped hot dogs mixed with the occasional heady scent of jasmine, caring more about reviving memories of the town before fame had reigned over his life.

Between working long hours and constant traveling, it took Roy a full year to adapt to the unceasing attention lavished by fans and production crews alike. It took him even longer to disregard vicious rumors and baseless gossips. The most recent had been an altercation between him and a well-known music producer. The public believed Roy had punched the man, coloring his heavy jowl a dark purple. Truthfully, Roy merely stared him down and spat a string of expletives when the man got too creative about an ex-girlfriend's musical composition.

Inching deeper into the core of Hollywood, Roy remarked the burgeoning crowd, a familiar street that boasted names of stars from the Golden Era. Fred Astaire. Ingrid Bergman. Immediately, he thought of  _Casablanca_ , a movie  _she_  was so fond of, and inadvertently disregarded the tabloid stand that advertised the latest celebrity gossip: "Roy Mustang and Rosé Thomas Secretly Dating?"

Maes and Gracia had married while he was filming in Prague. The ceremony was intimate and beautiful, Jean had texted, and the reception breathtaking. While Jean Havoc had described the event in full detail, Maes had bombarded Roy with pictures the following day. Red roses abound, rivulet of tears running down the groom and the bride's cheeks. White laces and promises, and two halves became a complete whole. Roy could only smile as he stared at the photos, his heart warm, wishing he had been there to celebrate the occasion with his friends.

Roy had sent the newlywed a DSLR camera as a gift, knowing his best friend's love for photography, regretting it only moments after he had mailed it out. "I'm sorry for missing your special day," Roy had penned, "but I want you to be able to relive your moments through images." Throughout that year, Roy had received a decade's worth of printed photos of Mrs. Hughes and the progression of her flat to swollen belly, Maes's possessive hand on every single one. Weeks before his daughter was born, the soon to be father had announced she would be called Elicia, and Roy had warned his friend not to blow up his mailbox with too many pictures of her. Nothing had changed, and in quiet delight, Roy had received just enough until he was able to meet his goddaughter in person.

The veil of night finally covered the entire city, and his heels turned at the next block, where a bygone era jazz wheedled him from the busy intersection. His eyes climbed to the flickering sign above the entrance and, with a nostalgic smile, he crossed the empty street and entered the brightly lit record store.

The narrow space that hosted a collection of vinyl records was still the same as before. The listening booth in the back of the store stood sentry, occupied by a young, lanky teen with a bulky headphone over his ears, his head bobbing up and down. Roy swept a curious gaze to his right and saw that the store had expanded into the next unit. A large crowd had gathered - fifty or more, if he had to guess, circling the main attraction in the center, some of the back row attendees tiptoeing for a better view.

Roy Mustang met Riza Hawkeye four years ago under the most peculiar circumstance. At first meeting, she had thought of him rude. During their second meeting, she had called him by the character he had played, her mocking tone condemning and her narrow gaze merciless. But the moment Roy chased her down for forgiveness, his eyes were locked on her and nothing else. And the next seven months of his life had been unforgettable.

How was she doing, Roy wondered. Did she still think of him?

Courteously, he slithered past the crowd, parting the sea of people with an apology at the tip of his tongue. His ears twitched at the sound of a raspy chuckle, the woman's voice dampened by a burst of laughter from her participating audience. She started speaking then, the crowd mellowing into a respectful hush, and he reached an opening by the bay window that allowed him a full view of her. His curiosity fled suddenly, and Roy found the air in his lungs escaping just as fast.

* * *

 

At seven o'clock tonight, her live session would begin. It was free of charge and spread only through word of mouth. There were no advertisements on buses or billboards, no marketing firms involved. There were only friends and family circulating the news, or fans who had caught wind of it from the single flyer taped to the storefront of the record store.

By hitting her ten millionth subscriber across multiple streaming platforms, Riza Hawkeye had defied the stars and came back praised and celebrated. The number did not showcase the same notoriety as many other artists who played the guitar just as well, or those who composed similarly to her own style. But under an independent label, she was granted full creative control and the rights to her music. And this was worth a thousand times more than any financial gains offered to her by Warner Brothers or Universal, who had promised more funding and influence in the global and online market.

Taking the circular stool, Riza sat and turned to Heymans and Maria, who were tinkering with the last miniscule detail of their set up - testing the speaker for the keyboard, tuning the drums and thrumming a quick shuffle to incite laughter from the audience. Riza inhaled deeply, tailoring the mic near her mouth and addressed her small crowd, finding her father and stepmother among the gathering, shoulders touching and fingers affectionately twined.

"Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming." Riza smiled, scanning through the first few rows of people who began to sit cross-legged on the matted floor beneath. "Tonight I will be performing  _eight_  carefully selected songs-" someone in the audience interjected smoothly and said 'twenty', his tone lively and missing the aversion in his abrupt question.

Riza chuckled, raspily, still on the brink of recovery from a bout of cold. "I wish I could perform twenty," she confessed, "but I'm still recovering from a bug that was going around. But don't worry, I will be sharing the story behind each song, so it will feel like you were sitting in for twenty songs."

The audience laughed.

There were a few choices for her stage tonight. The Troubadour maintained its popularity by featuring emerging indie artists who went on to enjoy a stellar career under the spotlight. Or there was the well-known nightclub off of Pico Boulevard, which could easily house five hundred people and would gladly squeeze in a bit more.

But amidst her recent accomplishment, Riza Hawkeye wanted to return to where she had started: as a humble musician who jammed with a couple of friends in an intimate, family-owned venue. The small record store held wonderful memories, and her decision had been as simple as counting one through three.

With a nod in the direction of her bandmates, Riza heaved the guitar leaning against her stool and propped it on her lap. "The first song is a cover called  _Anywhere We Go_. It was written by an old friend who decided that it sounded better with a little bit more drums, percussion, and synthesizer. Well... I beg to differ," she grinned, mischievously. The crowd erupted then died down, and she plucked her first chord.

Riza had been invited to compose twice in the last two years. The first was for a cable series, a time-travel, romantic drama based on a popular novel. The second was for a coming-of-age film, and the screenplay along with her composition were applauded at the Sundance Film Festival. The director had ordered burst of emotions - vivid ones - by way of her music. He had wanted her to portray the buoyancy and affliction that befell two teenagers in love who wanted nothing more than to be together but couldn't. She had given him exactly that, laced with her own experience and flair for sentimentality.

The song ended, and with a level gaze at her audience, Riza said wryly, "I hope Claudio won't mind that I played his song the way it was meant to be played-" Heymans snorted from behind, and someone whistled in agreement. "I'm just kidding. He's a talented musician, and I wish him all the best."

A brief longing for the past swept over her as she announced the next song, "This one is called  _Unsigned Letter_. You may have heard it a few months ago when I was performing at Silverlake Lounge. Or if you've been to any of my concerts, I always make sure to slip this one onto the track list because no matter how old it is, it's still my favorite." She paused, "This song was inspired by-"

" _Who_  is it about?" a female roosting in the middle row asked, her hands gripping her folded legs, her tone dripping with interest. A few quiet giggles followed.

"I won't name names," Riza chuckled, "but this person played a very important role in my life at one point, and-" when she momentarily looked up, her vision flitted to the large window where bright car headlights came and went, and she saw the man in her story wedged between bodies, the familiar set of his dark features robbing her of oxygen in an instant.

Roy Mustang was staring at her with a set of wide eyes, the outline of his shoulders stiff and the curves of his spine pulled upright. He seemed as surprised as she was. Promptly, her mind scolded her to look elsewhere, at her father or stepmother or even at the guitar sitting idle on her lap. Her gaze, however, kept running back to him, like magnet pulsing and drawing, mercilessly orienting her in his direction.

"And… and without him... " Riza stammered to finish, "I wouldn't be here with all of you... sharing my music..."

As she spoke, the shock that had smeared his expression slowly melted away, replaced by a look of anticipation. It took a moment for Riza to repossess herself, willing her heart to quiet and her voice to steady. The strain of their years apart eventually broke away, and the clock seemed to have slowed down until its hands stopped completely. The room was lulled, the spotlight on  _her_  and  _him_ , and gently, she brushed the string of her guitar, meandering in the memory of them. Of what was, and of what could have been...

_The first time you took me to the world outside_

_With flying colors and conversations_

_It scared me love but with you I was fine_

It was four years ago all over again, and Riza Hawkeye stood before a majestic building in wonder and awe, her future ahead of her.

The splendour of the Chateau Marmont was one of a kind, drawing patrons - loyal and new - onto its cobblestone pathways and beaming them back to Roaring Twenties elegance and debauchery. Like many, Riza had enjoyed its hauteur, occasionally trifling in the image of her heels tapping along to the jazz number of Duke Ellington.

She enjoyed these nights, and she had never had trouble peeling away thoughts of the Marmont until she took the bar seat across from  _him_ , losing herself in the inconspicuous twists of his smiles and the faint edges of his banter.

Roy Mustang flattered her into playing a little game, and she conceded wholeheartedly. And in between romance and laughter, their spark glowed bright and the passion of their conversation carried into the night, leaving her cellphone untouched and her calls unanswered. When the clock chimed midnight and the patrons had gone, Roy whisked her to a dance under the stars, her eyes on him and all woes tucked away.

_Basking in the rays of golden days_

_Kept hanging onto those familiar arms_

_The future uncertain but with you I'm fine_

Her hands fiddled with the hem of her dress, the velvet-wrapped seat and the quiet company of Rebecca and Gracia beside her containing her excitement, if only for a moment. Her foot tapped against the carpeted theater, and her breath caught. The curtain rolled away, and there he was, front and center, stealing her focus and charming an enamored smile out of her.

Stanley Kowalski took the stage, and Riza joined the rows of audience to rise and clap, wishing him encouragement, knowing full well he would do just fine.

_Consumed under the laundry or lost in the closet_

_Know that I will stay_

Climbing the stage, Riza faced an audience of three hundred, the pliant cords of her guitar familiar on her fingers. The Echo was pumping, and the night had only just begun. Maria and Heymans nodded, signaling they were ready. She pulled in a deep breath, slowly released, and began to play.

Where the crowd stood with expectations, hushed and waiting, Roy was beaming, a proud grin and a pair of glazing eyes centered on her and her alone. As she struck the first chord to a love song dedicated to him, he cheered the loudest, proclaiming to the world at the top of his lungs that the woman on stage was his girl and only his.

_Because soon we'll find your room_

_And the spot where you put me down to rest_

Dressed in bridesmaid lilac, Riza exited the ballroom and out to the rose garden, the flutter of chiffon trailing behind her, the thought of an entwined future before her. The moon rose and leaped over the steep hills of Hollywood, and when she turned, Roy was there standing beside her. The Hughes' wedding celebration had ceased, and all that was left was the spring trills of the birds, the gentle breeze, and two people who always dreamed of music and the silver screen.

Roy proffered his hand and led her to a sway of the waltz, whispering of their future and of Prague, and his wish for her to be there with him. In exchange, she weaved her hand into his and wrapped the other around his shoulder, murmuring broken stanzas of her new song, inspired by the smooth sandstones of the Charles Bridge that she could not wait to see.

_Dusty as I may be_

_You're not alone_

_And even if you were to lose me_

_You'll always find a friend in me_

Years later, they returned to where everything started. Seb's record store withstood the passage of time, unhindered from the long interlude. Hand in hand, they walked in, a pair of gold bands clinking against and finding each other. Rows of old and new vinyl collections brimmed the walls, and the memory of it rendered her emotional and her gaze misty.

Tucking loose strands behind her ear, Roy stared at his wife, fondly, warmly, and asked her to choose. Riza lifted a record, its sleeve covered in white with a few black texts etched across the lower half. "The White Album," she said. Roy nodded in assent and leaned down to touch their foreheads, crooning the words to The Beatles'  _Blackbird_. She smiled and traced a slow line round his cheek, serenading alongside him before tilting her lips up to meet his, taking the verses right out of his mouth.

With the vinyl in her hand, they entered the listening booth, laughing, talking, kissing, and left the world behind them.

_I know you're busy_

_Don't want to leave you fettered_

_So I'm leaving this unsigned letter_

_I hope the black fur won't give me away_

When Riza opened her eyes, the view of the record store came in full swing. Her breath shuddered, and the last note of her song fumbled and trailed away as hands clapped and whistles resonated. Riza looked up and found Roy, their four years apart carving a trench once again. He was there, unmoving and mute, a wistful slant to his mouth and a shadow to his gaze.

Before she could voice any intentions, a young woman, straight dark hair reaching above her waist and brown fringes perfecting her caramel complexion, placed a hand on his shoulder. She was tall and beautiful, someone Riza had seen beside Roy on magazine covers, wrapped in tight leather pants and long trench coat from the latest Burberry runway. Leaning in for a whisper, her lips touching his cheek, the woman took him by the arm and started to lead him to the exit.

There was a resistance about Roy, however, an uncertain gaze straying between the woman by his side and the one centerstage. It was a jumble of conflicting thoughts, between wanting to call on him or keeping quiet, and Riza struggled with the consideration, bouncing back and forth, while demanding the acute twist in her stomach to uncoil.

But the island of audience began to murmur, anticipating, lengthening their separation, and against her turbulent feelings, Riza chose to keep quiet, her chest aching at the decision.

Someone had told her once that life consisted of a succession of soulmates, each playing a role in carrying her closer to her ultimate destination. One would come and fall away, and another would arrive in its place; a brief stop on a long journey. And perhaps what was said was true. After all, Roy had done exactly that, fulfilling his role by lifting her up, up, and to the stars. He came. He gave. And he went. And it mattered not the circumstance of her emotions.

From across the floor, Riza felt his eyes heavy on her, as if waiting for her to speak and stop him from leaving her side. The beautiful woman grew weary and tugged at his arm, and in response, Riza curled her lips infinitesimally, and slid her gaze up to his and held them, silently conveying that it was okay to leave, that what they had had long come to pass.

At her gesture, Roy fixed her a contemplative stare, as if letting it all dawn on him. Then he began to roll a small smile of his own and nodded, acknowledging their shared past, their flourishing presents, and the treasured moments in between. Slowly, his smile blossomed into a full grin, and he shared the fullness of it with her. Before long Roy vacated his spot, and the images of what could have been faded in its entirety, giving way to reality once again.

The room cheered and broke into applause, urging her to continue, and Riza regained her senses. Marveling in the view before her, she traversed grateful brown eyes from one corner to the next. Riza released the breath she had been holding and smiled at the crowd.

"The next song is called  _Dreamer_."

* * *

 

_**Unsigned Letter** _

_The first time you took me to the world outside_

_With flying colors and conversations_

_It scared me love but with you I was fine_

 

_Basking in the rays of golden days_

_Kept hanging onto those familiar arms_

_The future uncertain but with you I'm fine_

 

_Dusty as I may be_

_You're not alone_

_And even if you were to lose me_

_You'll always find a friend in me_

 

_Consumed under the laundry or lost in the closet_

_Know that I will stay_

_Because soon we'll find your room_

_And the spot where you put me down to rest_

 

_Dusty as I may be_

_You're not alone_

_And even if you were to lose me_

_You'll always find a friend in me_

 

_I know you're busy_

_Don't want to leave you fettered_

_So I'm leaving this unsigned letter_

_I hope the black fur won't give me away_

* * *

 

Her modest apartment hummed with the usual comings and goings of the streets below, accompanying the settling walls and the whirring pipes beneath. From the kitchen Hayate came bounding, greeting her home with a sharp, welcoming bark and the stamp of his front paws on her knees. Riza trudged to the fridge, exhausted from the day, and refilled his water bowl to the brim.

Opening the door to her bedroom, she peeled away her thin sweater, tossing them onto a chair, and threw herself against the plush of her mattress, her eyelids heavy and movements delayed. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes blinking excessively to fight against the threat of sleep, her head running a sinuous course to the unexpected guest at her live session.

Roy had looked as she remembered, save for the tired creases below his eyes and the soft lines of age that contoured his still handsome face. She wondered if he was still the same person, caring and supportive, gentle and affectionate, wearing the bulk of his heart on his sleeve. Did he hold fond memories of her? Did he miss her as much as she missed him?

She had felt hollow when he left, and writing and composing about their encounter now would not have felt as liberating as it once had. She wasn't as strong as she thought she was. And a little part of her was afraid that she had read it all wrong. Perhaps turning him away was a terrible mistake. After all, they had been brought together by a series of coincidences. And tonight was no different.

In haste, Riza snatched her laptop from her vanity table and entered his name into Google, searching for hints as to where he was staying. Twitter. Instagram. Facebook.

Nothing.

Grabbing her cellphone, she dialed her manager. The well-connected woman would know of people who could give her the information she sought. When her manager did not answer, Riza left her a text:

_Call me. Urgent._

The device in her hand vibrated, followed by a shrill ring that jolted her upright against the headboard. Deep lines creased between her brows upon reading the screen -  _private caller_ , and she reluctantly swept her thumb to answer, "Hello? Sarah?"

But it wasn't Sarah who answered. Rather, it was a voice she recognized intimately, one she came across in her sleep when she was deep in her dreams and flitted to the past. Hearing it quickened the pulse on her wrist, each beat visibly thrumming beneath the blue-green web of her veins. The incredulity that crossed her face was fleeting, merely seconds, and Riza could no longer repress the heat behind her eyes nor the eruption of joy that overtook the rest of her features.

"I miss you, too, Roy."

**Fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The projects I will be focusing on next is **[Now We Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19161415)** , a canon divergence Ishval where Riza Hawkeye never joined the military, and **[Bound By](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20479013)** , a red string inspired stories which is co-written by A Passing Housewife. Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Comments are greatly appreciated :)


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